


Yellow Grass, High Tide

by ivoryline



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Bickering, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Footnotes, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Swearing, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Dagon (Good Omens), and aziraphale Does Not Like It, crowley is New In Town
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivoryline/pseuds/ivoryline
Summary: Crowley upends his entire life and runs off to the coast, chasing a daydream. As he carves out a space for himself in this new life he's chosen he learns what it is to be loved, and to love in return.(a story in which there are two cottages, a pair of neighbors a half step out of tune, a mutable sea of yellow grass, and the changing of the tides)
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 293
Kudos: 217
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the day has finally come to share my Good Omens Neighbors AU!! Thank you so much Amanda for hosting this event!! I hope everyone is ready to have an enormous amount of fun!

Crowley stands in front of a cottage that has clearly seen better days and surveys the overgrown yard. The wooden fence that surrounds the property isn’t doing so well and the grass seems to have overtaken the stone path to the front porch in the time that had passed since he had viewed the place. The front door might have been yellow once but it’s hard to tell under the grime and the missing chips. The cottage itself is a stone affair with ivy clinging to the cracks. The stones peeking out from behind the ivy are varying shades of grey and the windowsills are a white made dingy from the weather and neglect.

The dust his Bentley had kicked up when he inched down the gravel lane blows past him on the breeze and makes his nose itch. Crowley grips his key in his hand. He had made this decision. He wants this.

Crowley sucks in a deep breath[1] and pushes open the little gate. The little gate promptly separates from its hinges and falls into the grass where Crowley is sure he will never be able to find it again. It didn’t even have the good grace to squeak before its departure. He creeps his way to the front door, sure that at any moment some sort of animal is going to come running out at him from the depths of the yard.

The porch appears to be in decent shape, thank Christ, though the lock on the door puts up a fight when Crowley attempts to turn the key. He steps inside and is greeted with the slightly musty smell a house takes on when it’s gone too long without inhabitants. The dust coating the hardwood floor[2] muffles Crowley’s footsteps as he makes his way through his new home.

He scowls at the sorry state of the carpet in the bedrooms. He’s not sure what color they’re supposed to be but they appear to be some sort of murky brown color. The walls in the master bedroom are a hideous shade of lime green for reasons Crowley can only guess at. He flips on the bathroom light only to flip it right back off. He goes into the kitchen and resolutely ignores the peeling floral wallpaper. He stands in front of the French doors that lead to the backyard and peers out through the grime.

The porch is being taken over by grass and some sort of wild looking bush. There is a tall tree casting shade over an untended garden. It isn’t quite spring yet, but he can see the promise of flowers. Just beyond the decaying fence, peeking through the hills and the swaying yellow grass, is the sea. That is why Crowley had purchased this great filthy heap of a cottage.

The day Crowley had quit his job he had stared out over the bleak London skyline and tried to discern where the grey sky ended and the grey buildings began. He had listened to his office mates squabble over the latest break room refrigerator theft and the clacking of keyboards and the chatter over office phones. Somewhere between the misery outside his window and the misery inside an image began to form in his mind. A sunflower yellow kitchen. A porch swing. A real garden, not just a sad window box. The sea close enough that the air was always stained with salt.

Crowley didn’t much believe in signs, but he did believe in the concept of hitting one’s limit. He had been jarred out of his daydream when his supervisor, Hastur, slammed down a stack of paperwork on his desk and gleefully informed him that a mistake had been made and it was on Crowley to fix it. Something had broken inside of Crowley then.

Crowley had quietly and calmly packed up his desk and notified Hastur that he no longer wanted to be employed with the company and that he wished him only the best. That’s the story he has rehearsed, in any case. What had actually happened was Crowley had promptly relocated the paperwork to the floor, scooped up what few personal items he had on his desk into his arms, and told Hastur and anyone else who cared to listen to go fuck themselves.

He had then gone home, ordered takeout, and gotten properly drunk. He had woken up the next day on his couch with his Netflix asking him if he was still watching Golden Girls and a receipt with various phone numbers for realtors scribbled on it.

He’d had to view ten different properties before finding The One. When his realtor had told him there was a property that met his criteria in a place in the South Downs called Devil’s Dyke, Crowley had thought that was a fantastic name[3] and arranged to see it. The rest, as they say, was history.

His new home is rough around the edges, but so is Crowley so he figures that’s alright. He goes back out to the Bentley and rummages around for the small stereo he had shoved in the back seat. He brings it inside and plugs it in. The only CD he seems to be able to find is an old copy of The Best of Queen[4] and he figures it will just have to do until the movers arrive with the rest of his belongings.

He cranks the volume as high as it will go before flinging open all the windows and retrieving his cleaning supplies from the Bentley. Crowley heaves a sigh and begins knocking down cobwebs with his broom. He has to relocate several spiders to the backyard during the process and tells himself he isn’t being soft for doing so, they are a vital part of the ecosystem after all. He does his level best to relieve the house of its many, many, _many_ layers of dust and has to stop several times to wipe off the lenses of his sunglasses. By the time the movers arrive he has taken off his jacket and is attempting to scrub off the mystery ring of grime in the bathtub.

As he stands in the lane and tries to convince the mover that he isn’t being demanding he is just being specific[5] he notices a twitch in his neighbor’s curtain. When he had purchased his cottage he had quite liked the seclusion of it. It’s on the edge of town down an uninviting dirt track framed with weeping trees crowding the sides. He had been dismayed at first to find another cottage sharing his dead end but had taken solace in the hope that it was someone’s rarely used vacation home. The curtain twitch holds his hope at knife point.

Once the movers have left and Crowley is sure he is blacklisted from ever using their service again he begins the tedious process of putting up curtain rods. While using the fancy laser guided level he had purchased specifically for the move to put up the first curtain rod in the living room he sings along to Fat Bottomed Girls. Byt the time he gets to the third curtain rods his singing sounds an awful lot like a string of swears.

Crowley suddenly has the distinctive feeling of being watched. He falters halfway through an outrageous claim about the curtain rod’s mother and turns his attention to the front door. There’s a man standing there peering around at the mess with a raised eyebrow. He appears to be roughly the same age as Crowley though he dresses more like a stodgy grandfather. He’s wearing beige slacks that look more comfortable than well fitting and trainers so distressed Crowley almost offers to burn them for the poor man. He has a slightly upturned nose that suits the pinched expression he’s sporting. His eyes are some shade of blue, possibly green, it’s hard for Crowley to tell with his sunglasses on, but his hair is an unmistakable platinum that the fading sun lights up like a halo.

“Christ, ever heard of knocking?” The man turns his sharp gaze on Crowley.

“I did knock,” the man says primly, “it was probably difficult to hear it over the music and the swearing.” Crowley narrows his eyes.

“Right,” Crowley draws out the vowel. “Can I help you…?” He leaves the question dangling.

“Aziraphale,” the man supplies.

“Really? That’s unfortunate. Why are you in my house?” If Crowley had thought Aziraphale’s expression was pinched before it was nothing compared to what it’s doing now.

“I am _here_ to ask you to please quiet down. I’m not sure if you are aware of this but you _do_ have a neighbor.” And just like that Crowley’s hope dies at the hands of this ridiculously posh stranger. Crowley doesn’t even have the time to weep at its grave before Aziraphale is speaking again. “It’s always been quite peaceful here and I’d like for that to continue.” Crowley rolls his eyes[6] and goes back to fighting with the curtain rod.

“Great, thanks for the suggestion. See you around,” he says dismissively. He hears Aziraphale huff and the sound of those dreadful shoes leaving his home, he hopes, to never return. Crowley is great at making terrible first impressions and he feels confident that the one he just gave is sufficient to keep his neighbor off his property.

By the time he finishes hanging the curtains the sun is beginning to set in earnest. He figures it’s time for dinner and seeing as the kitchen is both disgusting and totally devoid of food that means a jaunt into town. There isn’t a universe where Crowley would go anywhere near his car’s interior in his current state. He needs a shower and a change of clothes.

Crowley hadn’t labelled any of his boxes so he has to open several before he finds his toiletries, which he gingerly sets on the not yet clean sink. He turns on the shower, takes off his sunglasses and sets them gently beside the toiletries, and strips down. He steps into the shower and stares at the shower head in disbelief. He imagines this is what it would be like to be gently pissed on.

“Oh, _absolutely_ not,” he groans. He mentally adds a new shower head to his growing list of things he needs.[7] It takes some patience but he’s able to rinse all the shampoo from his hair and soap off his body. He towels off and digs through a couple of boxes to find a pair of dark wash jeans and a soft, deep blue v-neck t-shirt. He spends far too long drying and styling his hair for the errand he’s going out to do.[8]

The drive into town isn’t too terribly long and takes Crowley along the coastline. The sun has gone fully down and he’s a little disappointed to have missed his first seaside sunset. He supposes there will be plenty more opportunities to catch the sunset, he does live there now after all.

Devil’s Dyke is a quaint[9] little town. The high street holds a handful of shops. There looks to be a general store with an advertisement for a sale on bread, a cafe with twinkling fairy lights in the window, a couple of touristy looking shops, an old bookshop with the shutters tightly drawn, and some sort of new age shop strangely enough. Crowley is far too hungry to stray off the beaten path in search of food so the cafe it is.

He walks in to find the cafe is mostly empty. It looks modern enough with exposed brick walls, stainless steel countertops, and what is undoubtedly local art on the walls. There’s a girl leaning over the counter talking to the barista. She has long chestnut brown hair with half of it piled into a messy bun at the crown of her head and a dress so long it nearly trails on the floor. The barista, who’s name tag says Newt[10], has hair so messy it defies all logic and a general air of awkwardness. Upon Crowley’s entrance the girl turns to look at him.

“Look, Newt, it’s our newest resident,” she says and sticks her hand out, “I’m Anathema Device, witch.” Crowley shakes her hand. She has one hell of a grip.

“Crowley. Are you calling me a witch or is that your official title?” He wonders what’s up with the weird names in this town, but something in the sharp intelligence in her eyes tells him he shouldn’t push his luck by voicing that question.

“No. Well, maybe. You might be a witch I don’t know,” she answers, looking at him thoughtfully. Crowley fights the urge to fidget under her gaze and resigns himself to making sure his sunglasses are firmly in place. “You should order the turkey melt. Newt’s good at making those.” Newt, surprised to have been addressed, straightens up.

“Right, one turkey melt,” Newt says, punching buttons on an old looking register. Crowley is too tired to protest this sort of treatment so he digs his wallet out his back pocket and pays for the sandwich. Anathema watches him the entire time he waits for his sandwich and Crowley stares very hard out the window while he pretends not to notice.

He watches the handful of people on the street finishing up whatever errands they were running. He supposes it’s a nice sort of high street. There’s a crackling P.A. system softly playing a song he doesn’t recognize and just the right amount of street lamps to stave off the worst of the darkness. He sees an older couple pause by the Bentley clearly admiring it and he can’t help but feel a swell of pride.

When Crowley was a teenager he’d seen a vintage Bentley at a car show and had decided right then and there that it was the epitome of cool and he had to have one. He had scrimped and saved for years before he found one that wasn’t in too beat down, and it had languished on the curb for a few more years before Crowley had cashed in some investments to have her fixed back up. She is terrible on gas, the gear shift is prone to sticking, and it’s hell on earth to find replacement parts. Crowley adores her.

“Mr. Crowley, sir, your sandwich is done,” the barista says, breaking his reverie. Crowley takes the bag and he has to admit it does smell pretty good.

“Just Crowley is fine, thanks,” he says with a nod and retreats from the cafe. He catches Anathema’s eye as he climbs into his car and he raises his fingers from the steering wheel as a wave. She offers him a small, close lipped smile and turns her back.

Back at his cottage he eats his turkey melt on his couch in silence and vows to get his internet set up as soon as possible. Anathema had been right, Newt knew what he was about. Crowley had intended on getting a little more done before turning in, but the heaviness of his eyelids says his day is over.

Crowley can’t seem to find one singular set of pajamas so he simply strips down to his boxers. He does manage to find one of his throw blankets, however, and he collapses on his unmade bed and wraps himself in it. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep to take him.

He waits, and waits. He then waits some more. His waiting is occasionally interrupted by tossing and turning. He flops onto his back and stares up at his ceiling. Something isn’t quite right and he has to wrack his brain to figure out just what it is. It’s too quiet, he decides. He’s so used to the sound of traffic and shouted conversations that it must have become something like white noise to him. Out here so far from town it’s so quiet as to be nearly silent. It’s too early in the year to even have the sound of insects. If he strains he can just hear the ocean, but that’s the only sound to break up the quiet.

Crowley scrubs a hand down his face with a sigh and kicks off the throw blanket. Maybe a cup of tea will help him settle, if he can find any of the things required to make a cup. He wanders into the living room and begins digging through boxes. Moonlight slips through an opening in the curtains and the hardwood is cold beneath his bare feet. He starts to feel distinctly wrong. He straightens up and looks around the room at all the covered furniture and blank spaces.

The silence feels oppressive. The cottage doesn’t even creak or settle. Aren’t old shitty houses supposed to make noises? The pale light turns the shadows cast from the half opened boxes into living things taking up space with him in the sitting room. For the first time in a long time he feels truly very alone. For a moment he considers going outside to see if Aziraphale’s lights are on just to see signs of life. Crowley shakes himself. He’s being ridiculous. He’s just jittery being in a new house, a new environment. All the same, he flips on all the lights. Whatever, it’s his house he can do as he likes.

He finds a packet of lavender tea but not the kettle so he has to heat his water up in the microwave like some sort of animal. He retreats to his bedroom with his tea and settles back in with his blanket. He makes it halfway through the cup before he slips into sleep.

* * *

1The aforementioned dust makes him instantly regret doing that as he hacks up a lung, maybe two. [return to text]

2and the windowsills, the walls, the built in shelves. It’s safe to assume that if a surface exists, it’s become close friends with dust. [return to text]

3i.e. hilarious [return to text]

4That always seems to be the only CD he can find. [return to text]

5He absolutely is being demanding. [return to text]

6A pointless gesture since he has yet to remove his sunglasses. [return to text]

7and bumps it to number one [return to text]

8This is also true in the general sense as well. He had thought that cutting his hair short would mean less time spent styling it, but he finds himself standing in front of his mirror for more minutes than he cares to count making sure his red hair looks purposefully disheveled. [return to text]

9Crowley hates that adjective, but sometimes a duck is a duck. [return to text]

10“It’s short for Newton, but please don’t call me that.” [return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale continue to be terrible neighbors. Antics ensue and an arrangement is reached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **cw:** Shadwell makes an appearance in this chapter and uses the not very kind phrase to describe Aziraphale that he uses in the show/book.

The following morning Crowley has coffee for breakfast and comes up with a game plan for the day. He decides the kitchen is in the most dire need of his attention. He gets dressed in an old t-shirt, a pair of baggy jeans, and a pair of trainers he’s designated as his work shoes.

Crowley scrubs out the cabinets[11] and does his best to scrape what has to be a decade’s worth of who knows what on the stove burners. He bleaches the counters and the sink next, pausing part way through to open the French doors for some air flow. When he’s satisfied with the surfaces he moves onto the floor.

The tile seems resistant to a mop. Crowley frowns as he pushes the black muck from one spot to the next. He has what he considers to be a brilliant idea and fills his mop bucket up to the brim and dumps it out onto the floor. Crowley tilts his head and figures there’s an awful lot of floor space in the kitchen so he repeats the process three more times.

Satisfied with the amount of soapy water on the floor, he begins to mop. It doesn’t take Crowley long to realize he has just flooded his kitchen with no clue how to rectify the situation. He leans against the mop handle and extracts his phone from his back pocket. Crowley’s never had a problem that Google couldn’t solve.

Once he’s thrown down every towel he owns he leaves them to soak.[12] He decides it’s time to set up one of his most prized possessions: his stereo system. It takes him much longer than he thought it would and he ends up having to push his sunglasses up on top of his head in order to make out the different colored wires. He puts in one of his Velvet Underground CDs into the slot and cranks up the volume.

Crowley had barely started to move the sitting room furniture around when there’s a knock at the door. He pauses then decides to ignore it. He pushes his black leather couch and tries not to damage the hardwood in the process. There’s another knock, more insistent this time. Crowley sighs as he replaces his sunglasses and abandons the couch. He flings open the door to find Aziraphale standing on his porch.

He’s dressed entirely in beige from head to toe except for those awful trainers, though they’re beige in spirit. His platinum curls are unruly and he’s looking at Crowley with a tight lipped smile. Crowley sighs.

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale says in the falsely cheer tone of someone in the service industry, “I don’t think I caught your name yesterday.” There’s a pause before Crowley realizes that was a question posed as a statement.

“It’s Crowley,” he says shortly.

“Crowley,” he says slowly, trying the name out, “I’m not sure if you noticed, but your music is quite loud.”

“Are you going to come over here every time I turn on my music?” asks Crowley, leaning against the door frame. That tight smile wavers just a fraction.

“Of course not. If you played your music at a reasonable volume I wouldn’t need to come over here because I would never know,” he tells Crowley.

“Right. I’m sure that whatever you’re up to at high noon on a Thursday is so delicate you can’t handle your neighbor listening to music, right?” Crowley says, voice a hint of a challenge. What is this guy’s deal? Aziraphale’s smile gives up the ghost and he huffs.

“Maybe I just don’t want to hear this racket, did-” Aziraphale breaks off as he glances over Crowley’s shoulder. His eyebrows shoot up. “Good Lord, what did you do to your kitchen?” Crowley turns to look at the offending room and before he can answer Aziraphale brushes past him and into his house. Crowley doesn’t even have time to protest before Aziraphale is standing in the wide entry way to the kitchen, _tsk_ -ing with his hands on his hips.

“Did a pipe burst?” asks Aziraphale.

“I was trying to mop,” Crowley answers and promptly kicks himself for not latching onto the excuse his neighbor had provided. Aziraphale slowly turns to look at him.

“ _You_ did this? On _purpose_?” His tone is full of incredulity. Crowley’s shoulders make a bid for his ears in a defensive posture.

“Yeah, well, got the job done didn’t it?” Aziraphale snorts as he takes a look around.

“It’s quite a mess in here,” he observes.

“Yes, thank you so much for your input,” Crowley snaps, “care to insult my home some more or can I show you out?” Aziraphale purses his lips but heads for the door without responding. Crowley goes to shut the door but Aziraphale stops and turns back around.

“ _Do_ turn down your music, though,” he says, like an afterthought. Crowley makes a big show of looking like he’s thinking.

“You know, I think I’ll turn it up actually,” Crowley replies, gleefully noting Aziraphale’s surprised expression as he shuts the door in his face.

Despite his threat, he doesn’t actually turn his music up, but he also doesn’t turn it down. Aziraphale can just deal with it. He finishes moving his furniture to an approximation of where he wants it, even though he realizes partway through that he will have to move it all over again when he paints the walls. He decides it’s time to run into town for a late lunch.

He grabs his coat, opens his front door, and proceeds to trip over something plastic and knee height. He curses, scrambling to regain his balance before he goes face first down the steps, and turns to look at the offending object. It’s a box fan with a note taped to it. Crowley rips the note off with a scowl and reads the tidy copperplate handwriting.

_For your kitchen. Should help speed up the drying process.  
-Aziraphale_

Crowley has half a mind to throw the damn thing over the property line. That might as well had been an assassination attempt. He masters his temper and carries the fan inside. Once it’s set up and facing towards the kitchen he takes his leave.

* * *

Crowley spends three days cleaning his new home. He returns Aziraphale’s fan with a note in his messy scrawl that just says _thanks. -c_ and unpacks what he views to be the essentials. He scrubs down the bathroom until it’s spotless and sets out his numerous skin care products on the sink, hangs what clothes he can in the closet, and makes up his bed which, at current, is sitting on the floor sans frame. He decides all his hard work warrants a break.

Crowley puts on a pair of tight black jeans,[13] a dark button down shirt, a leather jacket, and boots. A majority of his time getting ready for the day is spent on his hair. When he’s finally satisfied with his appearance he grabs his keys and his sunglasses and he's out the door.

He speeds down the country lanes into town and parks haphazardly on the high street. Anathema, who was coming out of the cafe, takes one look at his parking job and shakes her head with a frown. Crowley frowns back but the girl holds her ground, putting her hands on her hips to punctuate her displeasure. Crowley throws his hands up with a growl and reverses to fix his parking job. He gets out and gestures violently to his car, looking for approval. Anathema only smiles and offers a cheeky little wave before going on her way.

Crowley mutters under his breath about nosy townspeople as he wanders down the sidewalk. He has no real agenda beyond satisfying his curiosity about what exactly his new residence has to offer. He had considered making a grocery run, but he decides his oven and stove top need a few more rounds of cleaning before he feels comfortable cooking on them. He thinks it might be best to continue having Newt make him sandwiches for the time being.

He passes the time in one of the touristy shops looking baubles until he gets bored and retreats to the cafe for a coffee. Newt seems much more nervous without who Crowley is starting to think of as his counterpart so he waits in silence for his order. Coffee in hand, he succumbs to the temptation to check out the new age shop.

He steps inside and is immediately overwhelmed by the scent of incense. Patchouli, maybe? There’s far too many wind chimes hanging from the ceiling and the walls are a garish shade of pink. He intends to turn right back around and leave but a woman with store bought red hair[14] and blue eyeshadow emerges from behind a beaded curtain. Her bracelets jingle as she claps her hands together.

“Hello, love. Here for a reading?” she asks with a blinding smile.

“No,” Crowley says hurriedly, “just having a look around.” She cocks her head.

“You’re the young man who just moved in next door to our Aziraphale, aren’t you?” she asks. Crowley wonders if her psychic abilities had told her that.[15]

“Yes, er, I’m Crowley,” he answers while hedging towards the door.

“Oh, let me do a reading for you, dear. On the house as a welcome to our little town,” she offers. Crowley politely yet firmly declines and makes his escape. The last thing he needs is a fortune teller spilling his secrets all over town.

From there Crowley decides to visit the bookshop he had seen on his first day in town. The Internet had yet to fail him, but it can’t hurt to see what sort of home renovation for beginners books they have in stock. He pauses to read over the hours of operation, hand written in a way that pings Crowley’s subconscious, and he immediately decides whoever runs this shop is completely mad. The hours are erratic at best and incomprehensible at worst. Crowley, being a huge fan of chaos, can respect that.

He pushes open the door to the dustiest bookshop in all the world. The lighting is dim enough that he considers taking off his sunglasses and there’s an odd, musty sort of smell. A bell above the door announces his arrival but no one comes out to greet him, which he thinks is strange. Every other place he had visited so far has been almost too eager to greet him. The shelves are dangerously full of books, so much so that they appear to be two layers deep with some stacked horizontally as well, and stacks of books are in the aisles and punctuating the ends of shelves.

Crowley starts to browse the shelves and immediately realizes that there’s no rhyme or reason to the way the books are organized. He lets out a low whistle, impressed with whatever insanity grips the bookshop. He bends nearly in half to inspect one of the shelves and sees some of the books look to be quite old.

“Oh, it’s you,” a voice says from the end of the aisle. Startled, Crowley straightens up and whips around to look at the speaker.

“Aziraphale?” His neighbor is dressed a touch better than Crowley had previously seen him dress. The man is wearing a bow tie and an old pair of Oxfords. He thinks he sees the glint of a pocket watch, but it’s too poorly lit to tell. He looks so stuffy that Crowley is tempted to say the worst swears he knows just to see what sort of reaction he would get.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asks, his hands clasped neatly in front of him.

“Well, seeing as how I’m in a bookshop it’s safe to assume I’m looking for a book. Between the dust and what surely is a mold problem I seem to have developed asthma. Not to mention it’s impossible to find anything in this madhouse,” answers Crowley. Aziraphale narrows his eyes.

“If you have a problem with my shop, perhaps you should try the library instead,” Aziraphale says icily.

“ _Your_ shop,” Crowley demands.

“Yes, my shop,” Aziraphale says with a sigh, “it has my name on it in rather large letters. Are you sure you know how to read? I believe the library also offers literacy classes.” He gives Crowley a smile that’s about as real as the bullet holes on his Bentley.[16]

“It’s all beginning to make sense. You know, I think I will go elsewhere. The last thing I need is some musty old tome,” Crowley says with a sneer. He brushes past Aziraphale, who straightens his horrible waistcoat sharply.

“Yes, I rather think you’re right. Your home has more than enough problems as it is,” he calls after him. Rather than reply, Crowley stomps out of the shop and slams the door behind him.

Crowley had fancied going down to the beach, but between his interaction with Aziraphale and the cold wind that has picked up as the afternoon wears on he decides that it’s best left for another day. He goes to the general store for something he can throw into the microwave for dinner and takes himself home.

* * *

Crowley decides he simply can not stand to look at the carpet in the bedrooms for one moment longer and that they’re going to be his first renovation project. He tears off his bedding and drags his bed out into the hall. He takes the box cutter he had purchased from the general store and starts tearing up the carpet. It’s much harder than it had looked in the YouTube videos he had watched on the subject. By the time he has pulled up all the carpet in the master bedroom he’s begun to sweat and discards his jacket.

He rolls up the carpet as best he can and drags it out to the curb to set it beside his bin on the curb.[17] He leans against his bin and wipes the sweat off his brow. He sees Aziraphale sitting on the bench on his porch with a mug in his hand and just knows some sort of comment is coming.

“Surely you’re not going to just leave that there.”

And there it is. Crowley is not in the mood so he gives Aziraphale the two finger salute as an answer. Aziraphale stares at Crowley in disbelief before turning his entire body away from Crowley.

He repeats this process for the second bedroom, which he decides he’s going to turn into an office, and is decidedly miserable. The new carpet hasn’t arrived yet, but the dingy stained mess had to go. He’ll set up his bed in the living room if he has to. There’s no one to criticize the way Crowley is doing things, except for maybe Aziraphale, but Crowley has decided that Aziraphale is _not_ allowed in his house.

He’s sitting on the steps to his porch drinking water out of a mug when his carpet arrives. He heaves a sigh of relief and begins the tedious process of putting it in. The new carpet is a pristine shade of white and Crowley firmly tells himself he will not be spilling any wine on it.

The sun has just begun to set when Anathema knocks on the door. She gives him some sort of salad from the cafe and tells him he needs both an attitude adjustment and to sort out his kitchen because eating out for every meal isn’t healthy. At this point Crowley is absolutely sure she is actually a witch.

If Crowley needs an attitude adjustment then Aziraphale needs some sort of major life adjustment. Everything Crowley does seems to annoy him to no end and Crowley is seriously considering egging his house the next time he complains about something. It’s not like Crowley is the only one with bad habits.

Aziraphale puts his bins just a touch too far in the road so Crowley has to get out of his car to move them. Crowley had gritted his teeth and said nothing the first couple of times it had happened because he is not at all interested in knocking on his neighbor’s door. The third time it happens, Crowley snaps.

He jumps out of his car and stomps up the steps to Aziraphale’s door. Crowley growls when there’s no answer and trudges back to his car. Crowley figures he has to be at his ridiculous bookshop so that’s where he goes. He storms into the shop and starts glancing down the aisles. He finds Aziraphale sitting at a desk near the back of the shop with a book in his hands and a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose.

“Aziraphale, you have got to stop,” he demands. Aziraphale jumps and turns his attention to Crowley with a frown.

“Stop what?” he asks, confused.

“Stop putting your bin in the road, for fuck’s sake,” he says through his teeth. Aziraphale calmly slips a bookmark between the pages of his book and sets it to the side. He removes his glasses and sets them on top of his book. He shifts his body so he’s facing Crowley entirely.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” says Aziraphale. The two men stare at each other and through the haze of irritation in Crowley’s mind he wonders what shade, exactly, are Aziraphale’s eyes.

“I’ll throw your bin into the sea,” Crowley tells him. Aziraphale gapes at him.

“You most certainly will not,” Aziraphale says, indignant.

“I will too. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.” Crowley stuffs his hands into his pockets, confident his threat is a good one.

“You are insufferable,” Aziraphale says after a lengthy pause, “you do know that, don’t you?” Crowley flashes him a sharp grin and departs the shop with a wave.

Aziraphale’s retaliation for the bin threat is swift and shocking in its severity. It had been a long day and Crowley is sprawled out on his couch reading a blog post about how to remove wallpaper with the TV on as background noise. A half empty glass of moscato sits on the floor by the couch and Crowley’s lazy reach for it is interrupted by a rather insistent knock on the door.

Crowley groans as he swings his feet to the floor and stands up with a stretch. It’s half past ten in the evening and he has no clue who could be at the door. The knocking comes again and Crowley grumbles something about patience as he shoves his sunglasses on and flings open the door. The man standing in the dim halo of his porch light is very much not what Crowley had been anticipating. He half thought it might have been Aziraphale come to complain about who knows what, but that was decidedly not who had come calling.

It’s a policeman, but he doesn’t look like any policeman Crowley has ever seen. The man is unshaven and unkempt and he has some strange overcoat thrown over his uniform. He’s eyeing Crowley with open suspicion and it takes him a moment to recover from the sight to find his voice.

“Uh, evening Officer,” Crowley begins.

“Sergeant Shadwell,” he interrupts with an unmistakable Scottish accent.

“Right,” Crowley says, drawing out the vowel, “Sergeant, how can I help you?”

“We’ve had a noise complaint,” Shadwell tells him and begins craning his neck in an attempt to peek around Crowley.

“A noise complaint!” Crowley cries. This has to be Aziraphale’s work. No one else would be this petty.

“Aye,” Shadwell says, “a noise complaint. I don’t appreciate having to come out here just for this.” As if this is Crowley’s fault!

“Now hang on, I’ve just got the telly on. There’s no noise to complain about.” Shadwell stops his attempt to snoop and rolls his eyes.

“Take that up with Mister Fell, that great southern pansy,” Shadwell grumbles and turns his back on Crowley to make his way back to his vehicle. Crowley is taken aback by Shadwell’s language, but by the time his tongue comes unglued from the top of his mouth the Scottish man has slammed his car door shut and is making what has to be a seventeen point turn to leave the dead end.

Crowley closes his door and snatches his wine glass off the ground, fuming. He throws back the rest of its contents and crosses his arms. This is too far in Crowley’s book. Sending the fuzz to his doorstep? For a bogus complaint? No, absolutely not. This feud or whatever it is needs boundaries. Some sort of rules and regulations because if Aziraphale keeps on like this Crowley is liable to do something that would actually require a phone call to the police.

Crowley has made up his mind. He slams his wine glass down on the coffee table and strides out the door. He had yet to do anything about the state of his front lawn so he uses his long legs to cross it as quickly as possible because surely something dwells in the tall grass that he does not want to meet. He makes his way through Aziraphale’s better kept, if lackluster, lawn and bypasses his steps in one broad stretch of his legs. Aziraphale’s porch light is in better shape than his and lights up his porch like a spotlight.

Crowley pounds his fist on the door and waits, one hip cocked out and his hands stuffed as far as they can go in his small pockets. The porch light turns off and if Crowley were in a different mood he would’ve laughed, but instead he squeezes his eyes shut and considers praying for the first time in years for patience.

“Aziraphale, I know you’re there,” he calls to the firmly shut red door, “I have all night, you might as well answer now and save us both the effort.” There’s a long moment where Crowley thinks he might have to do something truly obnoxious, but the porch light turns back on and Aziraphale opens the door. He’s wearing a cream colored dressing gown over what looks like the softest pajamas in the world. The yellow light softens Aziraphale’s face despite the frown he’s wearing and Crowley has the strangest urge to remove his sunglasses to see him unobstructed.

“Can I help you?” Aziraphale asks sweetly. The level at bastardry at play should’ve put him off but strangely it has the opposite effect on Crowley. It almost, _almost_ endears the blonde man to him. He needs to focus because this behavior is currently being aimed at him in a way he’s less than fond of.

“Yes, you can bloody well help me,” Crowley snaps, “I think it’s time we had a talk.” Aziraphale’s plump fingers readjust his robe, drawing it tighter around him and Crowley’s eyes track the movement.

“Is that so?” Aziraphale is still playing dumb and Crowley has to respect the dedication.

“Yes, that’s so. You called the police on me,” he says, shifting his weight to the other foot. Crowley sees the gears turning in Aziraphale’s head as if he’s trying to decide how he wants to play this.

“Alright, yes,” he acquiesces huffily, “I called them. It’s just you’re a very annoying individual.”

“ _I’m_ annoying? I was having a peaceful evening until Officer Weirdo showed up,” Crowley flings an arm out to point at his house. Aziraphale wrings his hands a bit.

“Oh, was it Shadwell?” he asks and Crowley nods. “Yes, he is quite odd isn’t he?”

“Yeah, what’s his deal? Like, with the coat?” Crowley asks, gesturing with his hands to illustrate his point. He’s momentarily sidetracked from his irritation in the face of what has to be some interesting gossip.[18]

“Oh, Lord, where to begin? He fancies himself to be some sort of Witchfinder,” says Aziraphale with a roll of his eyes.

“Witchfinder? The fuck’s a Witchfinder?”

“Beyond ranting about witches during town hall meetings? I haven’t a clue. Did he ask you about your nipples?” Aziraphale is smiling now, probably at the look of mild horror on Crowley’s face.

“He did not and I’d like for it to stay that way,” Crowley says firmly.

“Yes, well, it’s only a matter of time I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says with a sigh. Crowley rubs his chin and asks himself for what has to be the hundredth time what exactly he has gotten himself into by moving to this odd little village. Aziraphale clears his throat and brings Crowley out of his brief reverie. “You said we needed to talk?”

“Right, yes, I’m upset with you,” Crowley says and tries to regain some of his earlier agitation, “we can’t keep going like this because if you send any more cops, especially that one, to my door I will be forced to up the ante, so to speak.” At this point Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak but Crowley holds up a hand to stop him. “I am here to propose an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?” Aziraphale narrows his eyes.

“An arrangement,” Crowley confirms, “I’ll keep to myself and you’ll keep to yourself.” Aziraphale purses his lips as he considers the offer.

“A non-interference policy of sorts,” he supplies.

“Exactly. It’ll be like we aren’t even neighbors,” Crowley says with a nod.

“Alright,” Aziraphale sighs, “shake on it, then?” Crowley extends his hand and Aziraphale clasps it. His hands are ridiculously soft and his grip is firm, yet gentle and gone after a singular quick shake. Crowley wishes the other man a good night and goes home. He has a blog post to finish reading if he’s ever going to do anything about the hideous wallpaper in his kitchen.

* * *

11He didn’t know before that is was possible for cabinets to accumulate ten metric tons of bug carcasses, but he sure knows it now. [return to text]

12Yes, Crowley may have gotten this confused with the common tactic used to wash baking pans. [return to text]

13A vast majority of his jeans are of the tight and black variety. When asked how he manages to slip into them he responds with “a miracle”. [return to text]

14Crowley, being a natural redhead, would know. [return to text]

15It wasn’t. It was a combination of a small, rarely changed population and that Aziraphale likes to come by and trade gossip. [return to text]

16That is to say: not at all. He got those decals years ago as a promotional prize. [return to text]

17There isn’t technically a curb just a switch from grass to the dirt road, but Crowley only knows city terminology. [return to text]

18Aziraphale isn’t the only one who has an ear for word of mouth. Crowley will deny it until the end of time, but he really is terribly nosy. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for all the kind words on the first chapter, this is already officially my fic with the most comments! I'll be sticking with a weekly update schedule until I finish the fic at which point the updates should come more frequently.
> 
> I want to give a shout-out to my friend Sami who has not only been my own personal cheerleader but suggested several terrible neighbor habits, including the bin in the road scenario.
> 
> come chat with me on tumblr


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley gets a new housemate, spies on Aziraphale at a plant nursery, and pays a second visit to the bookshop

Crowley is putting the last of his groceries when he hears a commotion over on the sidewalk outside the cafe. Crowley looks over to see four preteens arguing loudly with each other. One of the children, who’s covered in what looks like chocolate, is holding a large cardboard box while the other three crowd around him and try to talk over each other. He knows it’s not really any of his business what the youth get up to, but he finds himself leaning against his car watching the spectacle anyway. Eventually, his curiosity gets the best of him and he wanders over.

“There’s a lot of excitement going on over here,” Crowley says and peers into the box. He’s met with the sight of six kittens peering up at him.

“Who are you, then?” the young girl demands and Crowley cocks an eyebrow.

“Actually, Pepper, that’s not very polite,” the boy with the glasses asserts. Pepper turns on the boy, surely to tell him off, but is interrupted by a boy with golden brown curls and an air of pure mischief.

“He’s Mister Fell’s new neighbor,” he says, looking at Crowley intently, “aren’t you?”

“Yep, that’s me, Crowley. What are you lot called?”

Crowley usually gets along fairly well with children. He admires their curiosity and their propensity for chaos. Kids have an endless amount of questions and are so very imaginative. Also, it’s fun to teach them swears.

The boy with the curls introduces himself as Adam and proudly proclaims himself the leader of the group. The boy with the box and the chocolate stains is Brian, the boy in the glasses with the air of an accountant is Wensleydale, and of course the fierce looking girl is Pepper.

“Our cat had kittens,” Brian explains, “only my mum says we can’t keep ‘em.”

“Shame, that,” Crowley says, looking into the box once more. The smallest of the lot is a sleek black kitten with enormous yellow eyes. Before he knows what he’s doing he reaches in the box and picks it up. It struggles and mews until Crowley presses it to his chest where it hooks its claws into his shirt and begins to purr.

“I think that one likes you,” Adam tells him. Crowley shakes his head and tries to unhook the kitten’s claws. The last thing he needs is a cat, or any pet really. The kitten protests its removal and Crowley finds himself running a soothing hand over the tiny body. The kitten tucks its head into the crook of Crowley’s neck and he adjusts so he’s cradling it more securely.

“You should take her, please Mister Crowley,” Brian begs and then suddenly all four children are putting up a fuss over him taking the damn kitten. He continues to run a hand over her soft fur while he fights a losing war with himself.

“Alright, okay! I’ll take her,” he gives in while internally asking himself if he’s lost his mind. He tries not to jostle her too much while he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. The kids kick up another fuss about that saying they were under strict instructions not to make a profit off the kittens so he raises the hand not cradling his kitten in surrender. He beats a quick retreat before he winds up talked into taking them all home.

Crowley makes a quick trip back into the grocer’s for the basic cat necessities and then he’s on his way home with the kitten asleep in his lap. He calls himself ten different kinds of stupid. He’s never had a pet before, not even as a boy. He’s nearly forty and taking care of himself is still a gamble sometimes and now he’s got to care for another living thing? His window herb box was one thing, but cats are sentient, aren’t they? They’ve got little thoughts and feelings and shit. Crowley needs to do some research on the Internet as soon as possible.

He deposits the kitten in the sitting room with firm instructions not to destroy anything and hauls his groceries into the kitchen. As he puts his groceries away he starts considering names because he supposed that was the done thing. Can’t have a cat with no name running around the place. The cat in question has followed Crowley into the kitchen and is sitting at his feet meowing incessantly.

“I have no idea what you’re saying to me,” he tells the kitten while he shelves a can of peaches. “You’re a loud little creature, aren’t you?” The kitten, predictably, meows in response. Crowley sighs and relents, picking her up and settling her against his chest. Once he’s done with his groceries he sets up her food and water dishes and her litter box all one handed. He tells her not to get used to being carried everywhere, she needs to be self-sufficient.

That night, after introducing her to the little bed he had purchased for her, Crowley crawls between the sheets of his own bed and switches off the light. He barely starts his usual tossing and turning routine when a meow comes from somewhere beside the bed.

“No, absolutely not. You have your own bed,” he says into the darkness. The kitten seems to take that as permission and claws her way up the bed. Crowley can hear the threads coming loose between her claws. Crowley passes a hand over his face and sighs. The kitten waltzes across his chest and stretches out on the pillow by his head. Crowley puts up a few token protests and threats about giving her an unflattering name but settles in all the same. He will be more firm tomorrow night.

* * *

The weather is finally turning more to the warm side so Crowley thinks it’s time to start in on the yard and garden. He’s beginning to feel cooped up and burned out with home repairs, so on a morning where the sun makes an appearance he puts on a baggy pair of light wash jeans and a plain t-shirt. He had preemptively ordered a lawn mower online and now he uses a kitchen knife to cut the tape on the box. The mower is blessedly easy to assemble and in no time he’s pushing it out to his front yard. He nervously thinks that if anything is, in fact, living in his grass now is the time he’s going to find out.

Crowley has never mowed a yard before having grown up and lived his adult life in an assortment of flats, but he seems to be doing a decent job of it. That is until he strikes the forgotten gate that had been claimed by the yard on his first day. It didn’t do too terribly much to the wooden gate or to the mower, but the loud grating sound startles Crowley and he leaps back with a yelp. Upon seeing that it’s the gate and not some wild beast now hellbent on getting its revenge on him he swears loudly. Belatedly, he remembers the arrangement he had entered into with Aziraphale and uses a considerable amount of effort to lower his voice.

He drags the gate up onto his porch to deal with later and resumes mowing. It takes half the morning but once he’s finished he has to admit he’s done a good job. He might even be able to see a little bit of charm coming out in his home. Next, he clears out the flower beds that surround his front porch with his cat watching his every move from her perch in the window. He’s taken to referring to her as Creature[19] and she’s a nosy little thing who has to be involved in all of Crowley’s business. He wrinkles his nose at her and turns his attention back to the flower beds.

He has a vague idea of what he wants to do with his front yard. He wants some sort of flowery bush for the flower beds and pots on the porch, but he figures he’ll know exactly what he wants when he sees it. So, Crowley goes inside and washes his hands before heading into town to the plant nursery that had sprung into existence sometime in the last couple of weeks. He parks in the grass next to two other cars and gets out.

He meanders through the plants arranged outside the greenhouse first. Most of them are trees and he rejects the few bushes present outright. He moves on into the greenhouse itself with a sigh, hoping for better luck. He spies a familiar blonde head in the rows. Aziraphale is buying plants and Crowley finds himself seized with the peculiar impulse to spy[20] He shuffles down the row behind the one Aziraphale is in and watches him between the plants hanging from a low metal rod.

The man seems to be very indecisive. He picks up a plant, reads the information on the little paper speared into the soil, then puts it back. Crowley watches him repeat this process a few times, muttering all the while. He thinks Aziraphale might be turning around so Crowley snatches up a plant at random and pretends to be studying it, but Aziraphale moves further down the aisle and picks up some peonies. From this new angle Crowley can see his mouth is turned down in a pensive frown as he tentatively puts the peonies back down. Either he wasn’t sure what was he wants or he has no idea what he’s doing and Crowley suddenly has to know.

He creeps up to Aziraphale and peers over his shoulder. Aziraphale is apparently lost in though because he doesn’t immediately notice Crowley’s presence. Crowley is close enough to catch hints of the other man’s cologne and something underneath that reminds him of lavender and fresh baked bread. Aziraphale’s sweater is a pleasant shade of blue and for once isn’t ruined by some awful pattern. The beige trousers and terrible trainers are still present, though, and Crowley thinks they must, unfortunately, be staples in his casual wardrobe. Crowley clears his throat and Aziraphale nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Good _Lord_ ,” he says, whipping around. “Oh, Crowley, it’s you.”

“It is indeed. What are you up to, then?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale is looking Crowley over and doesn’t answer right away. Crowley realizes that he has deviated pretty severely from his usual color scheme. He crosses his arms defensively over his chest, the plant in his right hand shedding soil on his white t-shirt.

“You look different,” Aziraphale observes simply.

“Can’t very well do yard work in my nice clothes now can I?” he snaps. Aziraphale hums in response and gives Crowley one last once over, which he feels is totally unnecessary.

“Pansy?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley’s mind immediately jumps back to what Shadwell had said on his porch. Crowley squirms a bit with guilt over not correcting the surly policeman. He realizes Aziraphale is pointing at the plant in his hand.

“Oh,” he says, looking down at it, “yeah, looks like it.”

“I’m afraid I have a bit of a black thumb. Every spring I try to spruce things up with some nice flowers, but they seldom make it to the end of summer,” Aziraphale tells him with a small, self conscious laugh. Crowley can vividly picture Aziraphale picking out some poor plant for that musty old bookshop, neglecting to water it, then over watering it.

“What sort have you been getting?” Crowley asks, finding himself genuinely curious.

“Well,” Aziraphale begins, “last year I tried an orchid.” He twists a gold ring Crowley has never noticed before around his pinky. Crowley’s eyebrows make a bid for his hairline.

“That’s your problem. Orchids are finicky things, not exactly a beginner plant. Come on,” Crowley says and gestures with two fingers for Aziraphale to follow him. The blonde rejects a pothos out of hand saying he wants something a bit prettier. He rejects a succulent for a similar reason and no amount of protesting from Crowley can change his mind. Crowley presents a peace lily to him and Aziraphale gives a flat look and asks him to please take this seriously if he insists on helping. Finally, Crowley hands him an African Violet. Aziraphale takes the plant from him and breaks out in a smile that can only be described as beaming.[21]

Crowley explains the basic care the plant needs and assures Aziraphale that as long as he doesn’t forget it entirely it should survive. Aziraphale nods along, but Crowley still sends a silent bid for good luck for the plant.

“You seem to know a good deal about plants. Are they a hobby of your?” Aziraphale asks.

“You could say that. Never had much space to do anything with, not like I do now,” Crowley responds then asks himself why he’s telling Aziraphale anything. He doesn’t need to be having discussions with his bastard of a neighbor. “Anyway, best be off. Losing daylight.”

“Oh, quite right,” Aziraphale says. An emotion Crowley can’t name passes across his face and is gone in a flash. “Well, thank you for the help.” Crowley waves off the thanks and stalks off before Aziraphale can press the matter.

He ends up choosing some hydrangeas and the pansies. They are rather nice, after all.

* * *

Crowley seems to be running into Aziraphale more often than usual.[22] One Tuesday afternoon he walks into the cafe to see Aziraphale peering into the pastry case and struggling to make a decision. Aziraphale gives him a small smile and Crowley makes some comment about getting a move on effectively killing the smile.

They also run into each other at the grocer’s quite literally. Crowley had whipped his cart around a corner and struck Aziraphale’s. Crowley found it quite funny, Aziraphale did not. The teenager who works the checkout had to ask them to please just purchase their things and leave.

Crowley decides to chance another excursion into Aziraphale’s bookshop. He’s not really sure what drives him to do it. Boredom, probably. In a stroke of good luck the bookshop is actually open and Crowley slips in the doors. It’s as dim and dusty as it was the first time he tried coming in here. Rather that risk Aziraphale’s prying, he attempts to sneak between the shelves to peruse in peace. He’s barely had enough time to get worked up into agitation by the lack of organization when he hears voices coming from deeper within the shop.

Crowley pauses to listen. One voice clearly belongs to Aziraphale, all posh and prim, but with an obvious tenor of tension to it. Crowley doesn’t recognize the other voice, but it sounds like a man who is not at all pleased. Crowley creeps out from the aisle and towards the voices until he can see the disruption. Aziraphale is standing behind the till with his lips firmly pressed into a thin line and the man who is arguing with him is wearing, horror of horrors, cargo shorts and is jabbing his finger into the cover of the book sitting on the counter.

“The price is clearly marked right here and now you’re telling me it costs more?” the man questions in a clear American accent.

“Yes, it’s supply and demand you see,” Aziraphale begins but the man interrupts him.

“That’s bullshit and you know it!”

Crowley has seen just about enough. He strides forward and doesn’t stop until he encroaches on the man’s personal space. Aziraphale stiffens upon seeing Crowley, no doubt unsure what direction things are about to go in.

“Is there some sort of problem here?” Crowley asks, nearly speaking directly into the man’s ear. The man is forced to take a step back, taking him further away from Aziraphale.

“Y-yes,” he stammers, “he’s refusing to sell me this book.” Crowley gives him his most winning smile. If it just so happens to be a little sharp around the edges, well that’s a matter of opinion.

“Well, it’s his shop, innit?” Crowley says, clearly surprising both Aziraphale and the wannabe patron. “If you don’t like it you can take yourself elsewhere. No sense shouting about it.” The man looks like he wants to argue the point so Crowley crowds back into his space. The man caves, shooting a dirty look at Crowley and Aziraphale before storming out of the shop. Crowley looks over at Aziraphale to see his reaction. He has the book gathered up in his arms and is looking at Crowley through his lashes.

“I suppose I should say thank you?” he asks. Crowley waves his hand dismissively.

“Please don’t,” Crowley says, “but you can let me in on why you didn’t want to sell him that book.” Aziraphale straightens up[23] and puts on a rather severe expression.

“Because I refuse to sell any of my books to tourists,” he puts the same sort of emphasis on tourists that one would put on murderers.

“Ah, that explains it,” lies Crowley. Aziraphale bustles around the counter and makes his way to one of the shelves. Crowley follows behind him with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

“I have spent nearly all of my adult life cultivating my inventory and I am not about to let people buy my books willy nilly,” Aziraphale explains.

“Yes, how absurd. A bookshop that sells books.”

Aziraphale levels a glare at Crowley as he replaces the book on the shelf. Crowley holds his hands up in surrender. Aziraphale sniffs and makes a show of fussing with the books on the shelf.

“I must say I’m surprised to see you here,” Aziraphale tells him. Crowley scoffs.

“Why? You don’t really think I can’t read, do you?” Aziraphale tips his head like he just might think that but speaks before Crowley can get too offended.

“I just assumed you wouldn’t be back after the last time you were in here, is all. No need to get out of joint.”

“Yeah, well, it’s mostly out of curiosity. I won’t take any of your precious books, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes and straightens his faded waistcoat. Crowley turns to inspect the shelves. “How do you find anything in this mad house, by the way?”

“I have a system. It’s not my fault no one else can figure it out,” Aziraphale tells him with such an air of false innocence that Crowley throws his head back and laughs. Aziraphale smiles coyly like him and Crowley are in on some big secret together. “Have you been to the pub yet?”

“There’s a pub?” Crowley asks, bewildered. His excursions into town have yet to progress past the high street and he hasn’t come across any sort of place that served alcohol. If this town has been hiding a pub from his all this time he is going to be quite miffed indeed.

“Yes, it’s a couple of blocks from here. It’s not much, but the barkeep comes up with some truly inventive drinks.” Aziraphale tilts his head like he can’t believe the Crowley thought Devil’s Dyke could function without a pub.

“I’ve been drinking wine in my house alone like an asshole this whole time. You people ought to have some sort of sign up, or at least mention it or something. Knew all about the witch shop my first week here but I’m just now finding out there’s a pub? Insane,” Crowley rants, taking his hands out of his pockets to gesticulate and really drive his point home. Aziraphale purses his lips like he’s suppressing a smile.

“You should bring that up at the next town hall meeting,” Aziraphale tells him as he gives Crowley an appraising look.[24] “Would you care to walk over for a drink? My treat as a thanks for saving me from that tourist.” Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up.

“What about the shop?” he asks. Aziraphale gives him a flat look.

“How did you put it? It’s my shop, innit?” Aziraphale bounces a little on the balls of his feet. Crowley finds himself feeling much more partial to this odd man’s brand of bastardry when it’s not aimed at him.

“Alright, if you’re buying then lead the way.”

Aziraphale ushers Crowley from his shop and he waits patiently for him to lock up. They set off down the sidewalk in a not quite companionable silence. Both men seem to realize just how little they know of each other at roughly the same time. Crowley stuffs his hands into the back pockets ofhis jeans and decides that the burden of making conversation rests with Aziraphale seeing as it was him who extended the invitation. Aziraphale fiddles with his pinky ring and says nothing. It is the most quiet walk to a pub in England’s history.

Once at the pub Aziraphale introduces Crowley to the barkeep, Dagon. They have slicked back hair the color of hay and they give Crowley a frosty once over. Crowley gives them a shard edged smile and orders a glass of the house red. Aziraphale looks between Crowley and Dagon with an air of amusement and orders some sort of merlot. Drinks in hand, he leads Crowley to a booth along the back wall.

Aziraphale watches Crowley inspect the booth seat for any signs of stickiness before he slides in. He takes a sip of wine and sighs. Crowley doubts any wine served in a place like this would be worth that sort of reaction but to each their own. Aziraphale allows Crowley to take a sip of his own wine before speaking.

“So,” he says and Crowley sighs inwardly, “what brings you to our little town?” Crowley had known the polite conversation would have to come around at some point, but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it.

“Decided I hated London, hated my job, hated my flat. Between my savings and a small inheritance from my grandparents I had enough to fuck off to the coast so that’s what I did.”

“So this is retirement for you?”

“God, don’t say that. I’m not nearly old enough to be retired. What about you? Or have you always been here?”

“I moved here, oh, twelve years ago? Fifteen? Anyway, it was a while ago. It must be odd, going from London to here.”

“It’s...quiet here. And everyone is far friendlier than anyone in London ever was. Present company excluded.” Aziraphale laughs.

“Yes, well, I had grown quite used to not having a neighbor. The previous owners of your cottage used it as some sort of vacation home. I saw them maybe a handful of times.”

“Did you know they had painted the bedroom walls green? Green as in snot, or some other horrible bodily excretion. Who does that?”

They trade off catty assumptions about the previous owners for a bit before the conversation moves on to a discussion about Crowley’s plan for the back garden. They are perfectly amicable for the length of two glasses of wine. Crowley learns that Aziraphale has a literature degree and goes a bit stiff and evasive at the mention of his family. He also learns that Aziraphale has some very firm opinions on movie adaptations of books that Crowley equally as firmly disagrees with. The polite conversation dies an undignified death as the two men argue loudly about the Pride and Prejudice movie, with Aziraphale leaning over the table and Crowley gesturing wildly from his slouch.

Dagon refuses to give them a third glass and said it was because they were tired of listening to such an intensely dull argument, but Crowley suspects it’s really because they just don’t like him. They leave the pub when Crowley feels it’s safe for him to drive and the walk back to the shop is just as quiet as before, though it was more comfortable.[25] They bid each a stiff goodbye at the steps to the shop. It’s not until the drive home that Crowley realizes that Aziraphale hadn’t once asked why Crowley never seemed to remove his sunglasses.

### Footnotes

19. When she had clawed her way up his curtains he had called her “a wretched creature”, when he fed her 30 seconds later than usual and she meowed to high heaven he had called her “a demanding creature”, and when she fell asleep on his chest he called her “an adorable creature”. Sensing a theme, Crowley had decided to just give it a capital letter and call it a day.return to text

20. The impulse to spy is not exactly peculiar for Crowley in the general sense. He’s been known to lurk a time or two, but he shouldn’t care at all what his irritating neighbor gets up to. And yet…return to text

21. Crowley has never seen someone beam before. He feels wrong footed in the face of what he supposes is joy.return to text

22. The usual being not at all. Almost like they’ve been avoiding each other.return to text

23. a feat that Crowley had thought was impossible seeing how Aziraphale holds himself ramrod straight at all timesreturn to text

24. Aziraphale is envisioning Crowley at a town hall meeting. He can vividly picture the redhead swearing up a storm and offending every mother in the building.return to text

25. Even if Crowley _is_ considering strangling his drinking partner on the basis of being an annoying prat.return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Creature is modeled after my own chatty, mischievous black cat Luna. She likes to sit in my lap while I write and I just couldn't resist immortalizing her in fic.
> 
> I'm blown away by how kind everyone has been. Thank you for reading, leaving kudos, and leaving comments. You all live in my heart forever


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a terrible day, Aziraphale comes to the rescue, and the boys go to a festival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter got away from me a little bit, so here's a longer than usual chapter!

Crowley stands in his back garden and regards the horrifying mess of overgrown bushes and weeds with a clear gaze. He had sketched out on notebook paper exactly how he wanted the garden to look and feels a bone deep weariness as he realizes just how much work he’s going to have to do to achieve his vision. He wishes he could just snap his fingers to clear all this shit out and get to the rewarding part of actually planting.

Crowley gets to work with a long, put upon sigh. As he hacks at whatever the hell is growing up onto the porch he can’t help but wonder how Aziraphale’s plant is doing. It’s only been a couple of weeks but that’s plenty of time to do damage to a plant. He has a brief vision of the violets wilting on a desk covered in papers and winces before shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Aziraphale’s plant is his business and Crowley has his own plant related problems.

He manages to clear out about a foot of space around the porch before the blisters forming on his palms go from mildly annoying to actively painful. He’ll have to pick up gardening gloves on his next trek into town. The afternoon is wearing on into evening when Crowley goes back into the house. Creature is waiting at the door to loudly demand attention. She weaves between his legs and stares pitifully up at him.

“You’re a right drama queen, you know that don’t you?” he tells her as he bends down to run a hand down her back. She arches into the touch with a mrrt. [26] She follows him into the bathroom and sits on the edge of the tub while he showers, occasionally batting at the stream of water coming from the leaky tap.

He’s sitting on his couch scrolling through his twitter feed, freshly showered and in his pajamas with a bowl of ramen perched on his lap. Anathema, who’s tweets range from political based outrage, astrology, and community events, had tweeted about some Founder’s Day Festival that’s set to shut down high street this upcoming weekend. According to her there’s to be booze, food, and crafts. Crowley feels he deserves a bit of a break and makes a mental note to himself to mark in on the calendar hanging on the fridge.

* * *

Crowley wakes up in a fowl mood. Creature is sprawled out on the comforter looking like every cute cat picture on the Internet combined and the sun is peeking through his curtains and he’s warm and comfortable and well rested and the day is his for the taking and he is indescribably pissed off. He dresses in a hurry and has black coffee for breakfast. His hair has decided to conspire against him and no matter what he does he can’t get it to look anywhere near satisfactory.

He drives into town and stomps into the general store with a scowl etched onto his face. Madame Tracy spots him and merely tuts at him instead of dragging him into a conversation. He thinks she might really be a little bit psychic and is grateful for the space.

He snatches some gardening gloves off the shelf and winces when the motion twinges his blisters. [27] He grabs a microwave dinner from the freezer aisle so he won’t have to cook anything for dinner later and heads towards the checkout. The cashier takes one look at his face and bags his purchases in silence.

He hooks his bag on one arm and walks out to where the Bentley is parked. He fumbles with his keys and as soon as he has extracted them from his pocket he drops them. He watches helplessly as they tumble to the ground and, without any warning or preamble, drop directly down the storm grate.

Crowley stares blankly down at the dark space where his keys have disappeared through. For a moment he is filled with a mad urge to throw his bag down and scream, but it passes in a flash and all the fight seems to leave him. He sits down heavily on the curb and puts his head in his hands. The corners of his eyes prickle and he desperately tries to get a hold of himself. He is not going to cry. He is going to pull his shit together and get his phone out and look up a locksmith or something. He can’t sit there on the curb like the world’s shittiest statue.

Losing his keys isn’t the end of the world, even if he is particularly attached to his key chain. His house keys are on there as well and even though he knows he could break into his house he dreads having to get new keys made. The more he thinks about it the more it feels like his whole life has literally gone down the drain.

He takes in a shuddering breath as he feels a shadow pass over him. The last thing he needs is some well meaning townsperson patting him on the shoulder and telling him to buck up. He finally pulls his head from his hands to tell whoever it is to fuck off, but is shocked into silence by the sight of Aziraphale leaning over him. He’s wearing that old waistcoat that Crowley is starting to associate with the bookshop and an overcoat that looks soft enough to touch but just as outdated as the waistcoat. The brogues look as tired as his trainers usually do, but it’s a tired that says he had at least tried. He is frowning down at Crowley with his head cocked.

“Are you alright?” he asks, quite stupidly if you ask Crowley.

“Oh, yeah, I’m great. Everything is just fucking great,” he spits and drops his head back into his hands. Aziraphale tuts.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s happened,” he says. Crowley sighs and tries once again to beat back his tears.

“I dropped by god damn keys and they fell down the bloody drain. So unless you work in sanitation I don’t think you can help me,” Crowley tells his palms.

“I don’t work in sanitation, but I do believe I can be of some assistance. Wait here,” he tells him. Crowley ignores him but parts his fingers so he can stare down at the asphalt. Aziraphale is going to come back with an outdated phone book covered in dust and Crowley is going to beam him with it. Then he can add a murder charge on top of his troubles. The tips of Aziraphale’s brogues make an appearance at the edge of Crowley’s vision and he reluctantly looks up. Aziraphale is holding an oversized paper clip, a spool of yarn, and a torch.

“Are we gonna do crafts while we wait for a locksmith?” asks Crowley glumly. Rather than answer, Aziraphale hands Crowley the torch, bends the paper clip into an S shape, and ties the loose end of the yarn to the paper clip. He kneels down on the asphalt and Crowley feels a pang of guilt for the knees of his trousers.

“Be a dear and shine the torch on the grate. Let’s see if we can fish your keys out,” Aziraphale instructs. Crowley hesitates for a moment then feels along the torch’s length for the ribbed switch. He bends over the grate and shines it down. He can just see the glint of his keys down amongst the muck. “Ah, there they are.”

Aziraphale bends forward as well as he sends his paper clip down into the grate. Their heads are scant an inch apart as he unspools the wine colored yarn down, and Crowley does his best to keep himself from hoping. Aziraphale makes an attempt to hook the clip through the loop of the key chain and misses. He asks Crowley to adjust the angle of the torch before trying again. Again and again the clip misses its mark and Aziraphale never loses his patience. He keeps that stiff upper lip the British are so well known for and tries new angles. At last, the ruined paper clip hits home and Aziraphale reels in his yarn. Aziraphale takes the keys off the clip and deposits them in Crowley’s waiting hand.

Crowley stares down at the keys in his hand and tries to summon up a smile at the very least, but the damn burning is back in the corners of his eyes. He blinks rapidly and sends a silent thanks to his sunglasses as he looks up at Aziraphale. The blonde is still kneeling on the dirty street with a slight smile and the yarn clutched in his hands. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds and lights up that platinum hair like a halo.

“You’re an angel,” Crowley breathes, and immediately wishes he can snatch the words out of the air. Aziraphale’s gaze darts down and Crowley swears he’s blushing.

“That’s a tad dramatic,” Aziraphale says, still not looking at Crowley.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley tells him earnestly before Aziraphale can get any more uncomfortable.

“Oh, you’re welcome. I was closing up my shop and saw you over here,” he says by way of explanation.

“If you’re heading home I could give you a ride?”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to put you out.”

“It’s not putting me out. I owe you one, seriously, you saved my ass,” Crowley says quickly. Aziraphale searches his face for a moment and apparently finds what he’s looking for.

“Alright, but I’ve got my bike,” he tells him.

“The Bentley’s got a bike rack, so that’s not a problem,” Crowley says with a shrug. Aziraphale stands up and Crowley follows suit.

“Really? Do they come with those or did you add that on?” he asks. Crowley gives him another shrug.

“Thought I might give biking a try a few years ago and added a rack.” Aziraphale looks like he wants to comment but he refrains. Crowley unlocks his car and flings his bag into the passenger side floorboard. If he wipes away a tear or two while he sits in the driver’s seat and waits for Aziraphale to secure his back, that's for him to know. Aziraphale slides into the passenger seat and takes an appreciative look around. Under different circumstances Crowley would’ve preened, but at present he just wants to get home and flop down on the couch.

Crowley parks in front of his home and Aziraphale leaps out of the car before he has even finished turning the ignition off. Crowley retrieves his bag from the floorboard and gets out of the car to see Aziraphale straightening his already straight waistcoat. He meets Crowley’s eyes and gives him a taut smile.

“Thank you for the ride, Crowley,” he says as he goes to remove his bike from the bike rack.

“Here, let me do that,” Crowley offers. He hands his bag to Aziraphale while he tries to remember how exactly his bike rack works. Once the bike is back in Aziraphale’s possession and the bag is back in Crowley's, the two men stand in a slightly awkward silence. Just when Crowley is going to give some sort of goodbye and creep back into his home, Aziraphale speaks.

“I’m glad we were able to retrieve your keys,” he says, “it would’ve been a shame to lose your key chain.” Crowley looks down at the keys gripped in his hand. The key chain in question is a small picture frame of him and a young boy with straight black hair, and currently covered in muck. Crowley frowns and tries to wipe it off with his thumb.

“Er, yeah. It was a gift from Warlock,” he answers, pointing to the boy in the photo.

“Your son?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up and he barely manages to hold back on asking just what about him screams “parent”.

“No, no. My nephew. Great kid, complete hellion.” Crowley thinks for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the picture. “Haven’t got any kids, which suits me just fine. What about you?” Aziraphale looks startled.

“Oh, no. Can’t say I ever wanted any.” Crowley nods. Aziraphale doesn’t seem like the “dad” type. Grandfather type, sure. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair now. Thank you again, Crowley.”

“Pah,” says Crowley, “what are neighbors for?”

* * *

The day of the festival sees Crowley standing around on a crowded high street dressed in a way that suggests he hadn’t looked at the weather report before leaving the house. [28] The sun is out and the day is truly warm. Crowley is wearing his skin tight jeans, a henley, and a casual blazer and pretending like he isn’t warm in the least.

Anathema had caught sight of him as soon as he had stepped out of his car and dragged him over to the stand Newt had set up for the cafe. She had insisted on buying him something to eat and they stand elbow to elbow while she eats some sort of chowder and he has his customary sandwich.

“I don’t think I ever told you, but you were right. These are pretty good,” Crowley tells her, gesturing to the sandwich. She gives a very unladylike snort that endears her even further to Crowley.

“I usually am,” she says, tilting her head to peer up at Crowley, “right, that is.”

“Let’s not get a big head about it, yeah?” Anathema laughs and Crowley treats her with a small smile.

“I’m glad you’re getting along better with Aziraphale. He’s a good sort,” she tells him, seemingly out of the blue. Crowley rolls his eyes[29]

“Yeah, he’s alright. Hasn’t called the police on me again, at any rate.” Crowley takes another bite of his sandwich.

“Thank you for that ringing endorsement,” Aziraphale says and Crowley chokes. The man had appeared just to his right completely undetected at some point. Crowley can’t decide if he’s grateful not to have said something rude or regretful at missing an opportunity to.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Anathema says, bending around Crowley to see him.

“Hello, Anathema, dear. I’m surprised to see you, Crowley.” Crowley looks over at Aziraphale and cocks his eyebrow. “I just didn’t think this would be your sort of thing.”

“Oh, yeah? Know me so well, do you? What is my sort of thing, then?” Crowley challenges.

“I don’t know. Something ghastly, I’m sure,” Aziraphale says and shares a look with Anathema. Crowley doesn’t care for that look one bit.

“Right. Come with me, I’ll show you what my sort of thing is,” Crowley says and grabs Aziraphale by the elbow. He shoulders his way through the crow as Aziraphale bids a hasty goodbye to Anathema. “Something ghastly, what is it with you?” Crowley gives Madame Tracy a little wave as he tugs Aziraphale past.

“I feel fairly confident that I’m correct. When I think of you I think ‘oh, that’s ghastly’,” Aziraphale tells him as he allows himself to be pulled along. Crowley decides to ignore the fact that Aziraphale apparently thinks about him.[30] He comes to a stop in front of a stall that sells honeyed mead and purchases two pints.

“This,” Crowley proclaims as he hands a glass to Aziraphale, “this is my sort of thing. Booze at midday.” Aziraphale looks mildly surprised as he takes the offered glass. He takes a sip and groans. “It’s good, then?”

“Oh, very,” he answers and takes another drink. Crowley takes a sip of his own and has to agree. They turn and watch the people milling about for a long moment. Aziraphale is wearing yet another pair of beige trousers but is surprisingly without any sweater, sweater vest, or anything in the sweater family. He isn’t even wearing that waistcoat of his. He’s wearing a button down shirt in a pleasing shade of robin’s egg blue that Crowley finds he actually quite likes. He is, however, wearing those horrible trainers.

“Aziraphale, I realize we have had less than a handful of conversations that could be classified as friendly, but can I ask you something?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale turns to face him, his eyebrows pinched together. “It’s rather personal.”

“Oh, well, I suppose,” he answers apprehensively.

“What is the deal with those trainers?” he asks with a gesture down at the other man’s shoes. Aziraphale looks down at his feet as if he forgot what he had put on before he left the house.

“My trainers? What’s wrong with them?” The poor man is genuinely confused.

“What’s wrong with them?” he demands, “They’re hideous, that’s what’s wrong with them.” Aziraphale draws himself up, his spine somehow becoming even straighter.

“I like them. They’re very comfortable, I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale informs him. So much indignation for such wretched shoes.

“I could never walk a mile in your shoes. They would fall apart before I even got started.”

“Yes, well, excuse me if I don’t take fashion advice from someone who wears trousers that probably require half the morning to put on.” [31]

“This isn’t a matter of fashion advice, angel, those shoes are a crime.” The stupid little pet name Crowley has taken to using in his head since the keys incident just slips out without his permission. Crowley stiffens and waits for Aziraphale to call him on it, but it looks like the other man is gearing up for an argument instead.

“Honestly, Crowley, these shoes are sensible. I’ve had them for years and they’re perfect for walking around it. Don’t tell me you have a problem with my brogues as well.”

“I don’t have any problems with your brogues. They’re fairly decent work shoes, they work well with your waistcoat and whatnot.” Aziraphale opens his mouth as if to argue but then closes it. The sip on their drinks in silence for a moment. “So, I have another question for you.”

“Oh, Lord, what is it?”

“This is something I’ve been dying to know and I think you’re just the right person to ask. I’m desperate to know, what’s the local gossip?” Aziraphale looks almost coy, if he’s capable of such a thing. “Oh, come on, you must know.”

“Well, if you insist,” Aziraphale begins.

“Oh, I do.” He gives a subtle wiggle.

“Alright, then, what do you want to know?”

And so the next hour or so slides by them with Crowley pointing to various people as they wander past their little bubble and Aziraphale leaning in to share the dirty details under his breath.

“You’ve met the Them, right? That’s Pepper’s moms. Delightful ladies, extremely intelligent with great taste in literature, but they always insist on baking some sort of pie for the school bake sales and I’m sorry to say they don’t have any sort of talent for it.”

“That’s Anathema’s boss. He’s frightfully dull, but give him a pint too many and he’ll start singing sea shanties.”

“That’s Shadwell, you remember Shadwell, right? What am I saying, of course you do. Well, I didn’t tell you this, but he’s rather sweet on Madame Tracy.”

Crowley claps his hand against his empty glass. This is exactly what Crowley had in mind when he asked for town gossip.

“But the real question is: does she feel the same?” he asks in the same low volume.

“Oh, yes. It’s the worst kept secret in Devil’s Dyke. Well, except the obvious,” Aziraphale divulged behind his hand. Crowley takes a step back towards the stall and orders two more pints of the mead, returning the empty glasses. He hands a new glass to Aziraphale.

“The obvious?” he prompts. Aziraphale fiddles with his glass looking sheepish before taking a drink.

“You have to know by now that you’re the main topic around town,” Aziraphale says into his glass. Crowley opens and closes his mouth several times[32] before taking a few deep draughts of his mead.

“What about me?” he asks at last. Aziraphale takes another drink before answering.

“Come off it,” Aziraphale says, “look at you. Everyone thinks you’re some sort of fancy lawyer come to sell our rights to a developer, or some mafia person here to corner the market.” There’s something else tacked on to the end of that sentence but Aziraphale mumbles it into his mead and Crowley doesn’t catch it.

“What was that last bit?” Aziraphale dithers some more and casts a glance out into the crowd as if looking for a savior. “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

“Alright, alright. That you’re a big city hotshot who won’t last out here,” Aziraphale says miserably. Crowley laughs because he has to. That’s what he’s afraid of, isn’t it? Seems fair that the people who have already built a life in this little village, have already found their space and their friends would immediately single him out as the odd duck.

“Is that what you think?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale makes a movement as if he’s going to straighten his waistcoat before realizing he isn’t actually wearing his waistcoat at the moment.

“Do you want me to be honest?” Crowley thinks that might be one of the worst phrases in the English language.

“Sure, why not. Can’t be any worse than anything else you’ve said to me so far.”

“Every time I hear you swearing I think ‘well, that’s it then he’s going back to London, now’,” he admits, “I’m just not all that sure why you’re here.”

Crowley lets Aziraphale’s words rattle around his brain while he rolls his glass between his hands. He looks out over the crowd of people he only sort of knows while the sun beats down on them. He thinks about his sitting room that isn’t quite up to standard despite the frequent rearrangement of furniture. His bedroom that he doesn’t feel totally comfortable in and the subsequent sleepless nights where he feels like something is just this side of right. The kitchen where he hoards paint swatches because no shade of yellow is what he’s imagining. The kitten that follows his every movement like a shadow and the neighbor that infuriates and intrigues him in turns.

“Now I’ve gone and offended you,” Aziraphale says to his glass and pouts.

“You haven’t offended me. Just thinking is all,” he assures him. Aziraphale glances at Crowley out of the corner of his eye but keeps quiet. The two of them finish off half of their second glasses before Crowley speaks again. “Not a lawyer. Not mafia, though that would be cool. I s’pose you could call me city. I’ve committed to this, though. Bought the house, didn’t I? I’ve got to be much more drunk than I am now to give you any more than that.”

Crowley and Aziraphale finish off their pints in silence and had just hit the dregs when Anathema approached with Newt in tow.

“What are you two doing standing around? Mr. Tyler is in the dunk tank and I cannot believe you’re going to miss it,” Anathema tells them. Newt looks like he’s on cloud nine just to be included. Aziraphale takes Crowley by the arm.

“I have been waiting for this all year. Come along, Crowley.” Crowley shares a glance with Newt, who shrugs, and allows himself to be tugged along.

“Who the hell is Mr. Tyler?” Crowley asks as Aziraphale guides him through the crowd with purpose.

“He fancies himself the neighborhood watch. He doesn’t have much to do with us seeing how we’re rather on the outskirts, but he barges into my shop once a month and demands I spruce the place up,” Aziraphale explains. Crowley has been to the shop twice and can see this Tyler’s point, but far be it for him to dictate how others keep their affairs.

They reach the dunk tank and Anathema purchases tickets then presses two balls into Newt’s hands. Aziraphale digs around in his trouser pockets but Crowley is quicker. He hands the teenager a few pounds in exchange for a few baseballs.

“Alright,” Aziraphale says as he accepts the baseballs, “but the next round is on me.”

Anathema misses by a wide margin on both of her throws. Newt casts a nervous glance around at the group before throwing his and missing as well. Mr. Tyler sits on his perch and gives Newt such a dirty glance that Crowley tightens his grip on the ball he’s preparing to launch at the target. Aziraphale places a hand on his arm to stay him and steps up to the marked place. Aziraphale doesn’t even wind up. He gives no indicator or prelude whatsoever before he slams the ball directly into the bullseye faster than the human eye can follow. Crowley stands there slack jawed as a bell rings and Mr. Tyler is dropped into an icy tank of water. Anathema throws her hands into the air with a whoop as Aziraphale tosses his remaining ball back to the attendant and turns back to the group with a smile.

“Aziraphale, and I mean this emphatically, what the fuck?” Crowley asks as he deposits his baseballs into Aziraphale’s waiting hands.

“I really, really wanted to dunk him.” Aziraphale seems to think that’s the end of the conversation and Newt and Anathema don’t look nearly impressed as Crowley does. Crowley is left to reevaluate some of his assumptions about Aziraphale as they wander away from the dunking booth. Anathema links arms with Newt and promises to find them later, inexplicably pinching Crowley’s side before leaving. Aziraphale starts to guide Crowley back into the crowd while he rubs at the spot on his ribs that Anathema had abused.

“I believe I promised you a drink. Come on, Deirdre usually runs the local wine stand and there’s a simply divine strawberry wine you must try.”

Wine in hand,[33] they find themselves seated on a bench on the fringes of the activity. They finish their initial cups easily and Aziraphale pops back over to the stand to open the bottle he had purchased. Upon his return he refilled both their cups.

“So. Warlock.” Aziraphale apparently thinks that is more than enough to get his point across.

“Warlock? What about ‘im?” Crowley swirls the wine around in his plastic cup.

“What about him, indeed. The two of you are close, I take it?”

“I s’pose. He’s a great kid, full up of questions,” Crowley answers. There’s a lengthy pause and then, “He’s my sibling’s kid. Beez is great, they do the single parent thing better than anyone. They’re the only family I still talk to.” Aziraphale shifts to face Crowley.

“You don’t get on well with your family?” he asks with a little crease between his eyebrows like he’s really concerned. Crowley pulls a face. He really doesn’t want to get into family drama. It’s as nice a day as any and he’s enjoying himself.

“Ah, well. You know how it is. Some parents don’t take too well to having gay kids, or sons who wear dresses on occasion,” Crowley says in what he hopes in an offhand tone. Crowley had done the whole ashamed of his sexuality thing. He’d lived through the anxiety and fear and underground clubs and every other thing that had made him feel mortally tired. This village may be small but he’s not going to make himself equally as small to fit into it. He is who he is and the rest of them will respect that.[34] Aziraphale gives a mirthless chuckle.

“Yes, that seems unfortunately common.”

They sit in companionable silence for a bit facing out towards the festivities. They finish off another glass with Aziraphale providing a refill before either one spoke again.

“So, I’ve been to that shop of yours a whopping two times now and I noticed you’ve got loads of Shakespeare. I mean, you must have every edition of every play,” Crowley says, swivelling his head to look at Aziraphale. “I take it you’re a fan?” Aziraphale practically lights up. He gives some sort of self satisfied wiggle.

“Oh, yes. I had to read a fair bit of him during secondary school and didn’t care for him at all, but once I started seeing his work on the stage, that’s the way it’s meant to be enjoyed, you know, I found myself quite taken with his plays,” Aziraphale informs him. Crowley studies his companion for a moment.

“Let me guess. Macbeth? No, Hamlet.”

“Oh, Hamlet! How did you know?”

“Everyone loves a good mental breakdown or ten. You seem the sort to enjoy the gloomy ones.”

“Gloomy!” Aziraphale is aghast. “Hamlet is a perfect mirror into one’s psyche. So many different interpretations and any actor who’s worth their salt gives it a go sooner or later.”

“His funny ones are better. You can’t look me in the eyes and tell me Hamlet’s better than A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

They work their way through the bottle Aziraphale had bought as they launch into a thorough discussion of Shakespeare. Aziraphale is predictably well read and very firm in his opinions, but Crowley, having lived in London for his entire adult life, has seen just about every iteration of Shakespeare’s major works both on big stages and on underground ones and isn’t to be outdone. They have just started in on Much Ado About Nothing, which Crowley is strangely keen to hear Aziraphale’s opinion on, when Madame Tracy appears in front of their bench.

“Mister Crowley! How are you enjoying our little festival?” she asks. Her hair is red as anything in the sunlight and she’s dressed in far more layers than even Crowley had dared. Her bracelets clack together as she readjusts her shawl.

“Oh, ‘s great. You lot really go all out,” Crowley responds with a tilt of his cup.

“It’s so nice to see you finally getting along with our Mister Aziraphale. I consulted the cards, you know, and they said that the two of you would hit it off if you just gave it a chance,” says Madame Tracy with a knowing nod of her head. Aziraphale gives a short laugh and fiddles with the rim of his cup.

“Yes, thank you, Tracy. I saw Sergeant Shadwell over by the tourism stand, he looked rather bored,” Aziraphale remarks. Madame Tracy gives an odd sort of curtsy and hurries off.

“Y’know, people seem far too keen for us to get along. I’m thinking maybe I should chuck some eggs at your front door if only to balance things back out,” Crowley drawls and finishes off his glass. Aziraphale sighs through his nose.

“If you egg my house I will be forced to retaliate. I’m afraid that you don’t take me seriously and as a result you are quite unprepared for the consequences,” Aziraphale tells him solemnly. Crowley takes in his sensible attire, his upright posture, and his gentle curls and then remembers when the bastard had sent Shadwell after him.

“Alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist. We have the arrangement after all, there’s no need for extreme measures.” Crowley watches Aziraphale study the empty bottle before getting to his feet.

“You’re leaving?” Aziraphale inquires. He looks almost disappointed, but Crowley tells himself that it’s a trick of the shadows cast by the tree looming behind the bench.

“I’m going in search of more alcohol. It’s barely mid-afternoon and we are far too sober for as momentous an event as Founder’s Day,” Crowley assures him. Aziraphale looks like he wants to protest, but Crowley speaks first. “You got the last bottle so it’s my turn. I’ll be right back, don’t worry your pretty little head.

Crowley launches himself off the bench without waiting for Aziraphale’s response. He weaves through the crowd, his eyes passing over booths that had nothing to do with booze. He runs into Newt, who was strangely without Anathema, and grips the young man by the bicep.

“Newt! Great to see ya,” Crowley announces to the world at large. Newt looks around as if he isn’t quite sure who Crowley is talking to. “Can you point me in the direction of a stall that sells alcohol?”

“Oh, yeah, there’s the Johnson’s with the honey mead,” Newt starts.

“No, yeah, tried that and it’s great, but I’m looking for something different,” Crowley interrupts.

“Alright, um, have you tried the local wine stand?” Newt offers. He doesn’t seem keen on looking directly at Crowley, choosing to alternate looking at his feet and Crowley’s knees.

“Yes, but that will do. Thanks, Newt,” Crowley says and gives Newt a solid pat on the arm. He makes his way back to the wine stand that Aziraphale had bought their strawberry wine from, dodging a very persistent nun in the process, and looks over the choices. He tries to think of what Aziraphale would most likely enjoy but the moment he sees the honeysuckle wine it’s game over. He simply has to try it. He purchases a bottle and is dismayed to see it’s a twist top. He hopes Aziraphale won’t notice.

He makes his way back to their bench, ignoring the half a dozen ‘hello’s he receives on the way, and when Aziraphale is back in his line of sight he looks comfortable as anything. His back is ruler straight and his legs are crossed at the ankle and he looks totally content to people watch. His pale pink lips are curved up in a small smile and Crowley notes that he has a perfect cupid’s bow. The sunlight melting through the tree paints him in contrasts and the breeze ruffles his already unruly curls. Aziraphale looks like he was made to occupy this small English town on the coast. Any picture painted of this scenery wouldn’t be complete without Aziraphale’s smile lines and the softness of his profile.

Well. Anyway.

“Angel! How’s the honeysuckle wine? Good, I hope, because I got us a bottle,” Crowley announces as he flops down onto the bench and sprawls. Aziraphale rolls his eyes but holds his cup out all the same.

“Is that nickname going to stick?” he asks while Crowley fills his cup.

“Oh, absolutely. Hair like that not to mention you fished my keys out of literal Hell? Yeah, you’re an angel,” Crowley replies decisively. They both take healthy drinks from their cups.

“You think ‘angel’ is an apt nickname even after our neighborly disagreements?” Aziraphale wonders with another satisfied wiggle.

“Neighborly disagreements? You mean you being a shit? What’s an angel without a bit of wrath?” Aziraphale tips his head in agreement as they lose themselves to the second bottle.

The afternoon wears on and at some point Anathema stops by to pass on twin baskets of fish and chips. Aziraphale feels the need to lavish her in compliments about the absurd plaid dress she’s wearing while Crowley swears soundly about how perfectly the fish is fried. He ends up sharing his chips with Aziraphale as the sun sinks behind the horizon.

“Have you been to the beach yet?” Aziraphale asks as he swipes the last of Crowley’s chips through the salt and vinegar at the bottom of the basket.

“Nah,” Crowley says, drawing the word out, “haven’t had the time yet. That cottage has required a lot more work than I originally thought it would. Well, the amount of work is probably the same, it's just that I don’t know shit all.”

“It looks better now that you don’t have grass growing all over the place,” Aziraphale assures him, “but you really should make time for the beach before the tourists start showing up in earnest. It’s quite nice.”

“Aren’t all beaches nice? Isn’t that the point of them?” Aziraphale gives him a flat look.

“Yes, but ours is special of course.”

“Of course, right.”

Newt ends up having to give Crowley and Aziraphale a ride home once the festival starts to wind down. Anathema shoves them into the back seat and tells Crowley to stop fretting about the Bentley, Newt will come around tomorrow to take him back to get her. Aziraphale spends the entire ride lecturing Crowley on why he should be wearing a seatbelt without realizing Crowley had unbuckled Aziraphale’s within the first ten seconds of the lecture. Crowley slumps down in his seat as he watches Aziraphale lose the thread of his argument and wonders what the moonlight looks like as it pulls the tide.

### Footnotes

26. Creature doesn’t speak English and Crowley doesn’t speak whatever language it is that she speaks, but they seem to have come to an understanding. Creature, Crowley was pleased to discover, is an excellent listener and allows him to rant at length about whatever topic he feels inclined to expand on even though she has no idea what the hell he’s going on about.return to text

27. Crowley has never done a moment’s hard labor in his life. His hands are soft and obsessively moisturized and he’s hoping they stay that way.return to text

28. That is exactly the case. Crowley firmly believes weather is something that happens to other people.return to text

29. Someday long into the future when Crowley is old and grey he will wake in the dead of night and realize that rolling his eyes while wearing sunglasses was a wasted gesture. He will be incensed.return to text

30. Crowley has been known to spare a thought or two about Aziraphale. Mostly about his infuriating qualities. Occasionally about his hair. Lately he’s taken to curiosity about the exact color of his eyes.return to text

31. Aziraphale is more right than he knows.return to text

32. Aziraphale has manners so he refrains from telling Crowley he looks awfully like a fish. His manners don’t prevent him from thinking it, though.return to text

33. It’s a very good wine. Crowley makes a mental note to ask him for wine recommendations. Aziraphale seems to know his way around a vintage, even if he leans towards the incredibly strong and dry.return to text

34. If not then Crowley has plenty of time on his hands and an unending capacity for mischief.return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm posting this a little later than usual, sorry! it's been a rough week.
> 
> thank you all so much for all the support and kindness! I'm behind on responding to comments but i read and appreciate every single one. i'll try to catch up some time this week, just know y'all live in my heart


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Crowley makes a friend, spring turns to summer, and Aziraphale takes Crowley to the beach

Crowley’s back garden is coming along nicely. All the weeds and overgrown brush has been beaten back and he’s started to implement his sketched out plans. There’s a lattice arch over the back gate that Crowley hadn’t paid much attention to at first, but now that he has removed whatever withered vines that had been growing on it he has the urge to repair the damaged slats. He thinks it might be nice to grow some sort of rose on it.

He’s taking a break in his kitchen and picking at some leftover pasta salad when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Anathema with her owlish glasses and some sort of lacy dress that sits high up on her throat. She slaps a couple of envelopes against Crowley’s chest and he grabs them on instinct.

“What are these?”

“I stopped by Aziraphale’s with a book and he said he’s been getting your mail, so I brought it to you because I want to see your house,” she tells him and peers up at him expectantly. Anathema has a very direct way of speaking that Crowley has to admire. No dancing around the subject with this one.

“She’s a work in progress, but sure, whatever,” he says as he steps back so she can enter. She takes a look around his sitting room before passing right through to the kitchen.

“Aziraphale said you flooded it in here, but it looks alright now. Wallpaper is atrocious, though,” she says, inspecting his fridge magnets. Crowley snorts.

“Aziraphale gossips too much,” he answers as he goes back to his pasta salad, “and I’m working on the walls, thanks.” Anathema is no longer inspecting his kitchen. Instead, she is focused entirely on Crowley.

“Are you and Aziraphale friends now?” she asks. Crowley rolls his eyes behind his lenses.

“Of course not,” he responds around a mouthful of pasta, “we’ve agreed to a ceasefire is all.” She raises her eyebrows but says nothing. Crowley holds her gaze as he swallows. “Are you and Aziraphale friends?” he asks, lightly mocking her.

“Yes, we are,” says Anathema simply, not missing a beat. Crowley studies her for a moment before breaking their eye contact to gaze down at his half eaten bowl of pasta. “I’d also like to consider us friends.” She says it so frankly, so plainly, that Crowley has no idea how to respond. He pushes an olive around in the bowl with his fork while he considers how to reply.

“I’ve had people I tolerated. People I went out with on Friday nights. Coworkers I could stand to make small talk with in the break room. Fair weather friends who were good for a laugh but God forbid you get your heart broken or need to move a couch. Not much experience in anything else,” he says at last, half spoken to his meal. Crowley doesn’t know where this need to be candid came from, but he thinks it has something to do with Anathema’s earnestness. Her sharp gaze that demands nothing less than pure honesty. He waits for some blithe joke or for her to brush it off and carry on with her frank assessment of his home, but she does neither. She holds her hand out, just barely in his line of sight. He looks up at her and cocks his eyebrow in question.

“Give me your phone,” she requests. He wordlessly complies, unlocking it before handing it to her. She taps away on the screen for a moment before handing it back. “There, you’ve got my number now. I’m off on Thursdays should you need a couch moved. Or help painting this kitchen. Good Lord, Crowley, it’s awful in here.” And just like that she shifts the mood back to something more lighthearted.

“I’ve got something specific in mind for my kitchen, thank you very much. I’ll keep the Thursdays in mind, though. I think Creature is sick of me haunting the sitting room,” he says. “My cat,” he answers her wordless question. She brightens at the mention of his cat so he abandons the last few bites of his meal and leads her back to his bedroom where Creature is sitting on the windowsill, soaking up the afternoon sun.

She all but melts at the sight of the kitten and coos sweet nothings as she runs a hand down the cat’s back. Creature, the ham that she is, arches into the contact and meows back in a mimic of conversation. Crowley crosses his arms as he leans against his dresser. He decides that Anathema is a good sort. He hasn’t forgotten that time she brought him a meal simply because she hadn’t seen him come into the cafe. She is smart, and kind, and teases him with impunity. Yes, he decides, they can be friends.

* * *

Crowley puts the lattice on the back burner for the time being, but he’s gotten a variety of vegetables planted. He had cleared out a plot on the left-hand side of his backyard and planted beans, tomatoes, lettuce, and cucumbers. Along the opposite fence he had planted basil, rosemary, and mint. He had honeysuckle bushes along the back fence that he hopes he can coax into overtaking the fence line and hanging planters on the porch with an assortment of pansies, petunias, and violets.

Crowley is lounging on his couch, the sun long set, with a glass of wine in one hand and the remote in the other when Creature comes streaking out from his bedroom. The cat leaps up onto the kitchen island and scatters Crowley’s sketches for the fairy lights and furniture he has planned for his back porch, the pages fluttering to the floor.

“Oi,” Crowley calls out, sitting up abruptly. Creature pays him no mind and jumps off the island to tear ass through the living room. She goes so far as to claw her way up the curtains and Crowley sets his glass down on the coffee table with a groan. He tries to unhook her claws from the fabric when she lets go and sets off across with a quick pitstop to the coffee table to knock the glass of wine over. He rushes to pick up the glass and dabs the wine up with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“What in the fuck is your problem?”

Creature is in the process of running laps around the sitting room when there’s a rather frantic knock at his front door. Crowley is torn between trying to soothe the ridiculous creature he has allowed into his home and finding out who the hell is at his door. Another set of frantic knocks makes his decision for him. He growls and flings his door open.

“What?” he demands.

“I need your help.” It’s Aziraphale, because of course it is. He’s dressed in his customary work get up with the whole waistcoat and brogues, but his hair is more disheveled than usual. It looks like he’s run his hands through it a few times.

“What?”

“My plant. It’s dying,” he says and now Crowley notices he’s clutching a white ceramic pot with the violets they had picked out at the plant nursery. Crowley hears the sound of something he prefers to not be on the floor getting knocked over somewhere in his house.

“What?” Crowley asks again. Aziraphale just shoves the pot into his hands. He looks down at the plant and Aziraphale is right; it doesn’t look so good. He steps back to angle the pot more in the light and Aziraphale takes that as permission to enter his home. Crowley figures it might as well happen and kicks the door shut behind him. He’s on the way to set the pot down on the kitchen island when Creature decides to execute some move that Crowley is sure he’s seen in some parkour videos on YouTube off the back of the couch.

“What in God’s name?” Aziraphale asks breathlessly as he clutches at his chest like some sort of Victorian maiden.

“Creature,” is all Crowley gives as explanation as he studies the plant under his kitchen light. Aziraphale creeps into the kitchen like he’s walking through a minefield as he keeps a firm eye on the cat. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “I’ll say”.

Crowley shifts the pot as he takes in the browning leaves and the soil that’s more mud than anything. It’s clear that the plant had largely been ignored ever since the day it was brought home. He turns to admonish Aziraphale for his treatment of the plant and sees him hovering over the threshold. He’s twisting his hands together nervously while Creature rubs up against his shins. He looks up and sees Crowley watching them.

“What does it want?” he asks.

“She,” Crowley corrects and narrows his eyes at Creature.

“What does _she_ want?”

“I dunno. Blood of the innocents, probably.” Aziraphale gives him a withering look. “Just pet her, for fuck’s sake. Maybe you can keep her from destroying my home.” He reaches a tentative hand down to pat her on the head and the traitor stands up on her hind legs, just begging to be picked up. Aziraphale does just that and cradles her against his chest. Crowley wrinkles his nose in disgust and motions for Aziraphale to come closer.

“What’s the diagnosis?” Aziraphale asks as he leans over the plant, absentmindedly petting the cat in his arms.

“The diagnosis is that you’re a murderer,” Crowley tells him, prodding at the leaves.

“You told me this one was easy,” Aziraphale accuses. The audacity! Crowley had given him specific and simple instructions. How on Earth is this his fault?

“I did and it is. I just didn’t realize you were a literal Grim Reaper.”

“I could do without the dramatic commentary, my dear. Just tell me how to fix it.” Crowley would’ve loved to have told him the solution to his problems, but he’s stuck on the ‘my dear’ thing. Was that just part of his antiquated aesthetic or was it deliberate. Did this odd man go around calling everyone ‘my dear’? Had he called Crowley that before and he just didn’t notice it? Ignorant of his private dilemma, Aziraphale glares at Crowley. After a few false starts Crowley is finally able to construct a sentence.

“You’re over watering it, for a start. After severely under watering it, I would wager. I told you already. Just put it in the sun and keep the soil damp,” he informs him, “that’s like, two things. It really doesn’t get much simpler than that.” He rotates the pot a few times. The damage isn’t irreversible and he tells Aziraphale as much. Creature is starting to get antsy in his hold so Aziraphale loosens his grip and lets the cat jump down. Creature takes off in the direction of the bedroom and Aziraphale, enigma that he is, gives a small wave to the retreating figure.

“‘S a nice pot, though,” Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale’s shoulders slump.

“I intended on painting it, but I’m afraid I put it off for too long and I didn’t think poor Will liked being left in the plastic pot he came in,” Aziraphale admits. Crowley furrows his brow.

“Do you paint? Wait, Will? Please don’t tell me you’ve named the plant.”

“I dabble,” Aziraphale sniffs, “and of course I named him, he’s a living thing, after all.” Crowley leans against the island and cocks his head. Aziraphale, Bastard Neighbor Extraordinaire, likes to paint and names his plants. Crowley would bet the rest of his savings that the blonde also likes to sit on park benches and feed the ducks.[35]

“Right, well, since you’re here and interrupting my peaceful evening, would you like a glass of wine? It’s just a cheap chardonnay from the general store, but it’s not so bad,” Crowley hears himself offer. Anathema must have gotten to him with all that friend talk. Or maybe she left some sort of amulet or witchy device hidden somewhere that’s making him feel hospitable.[36] Aziraphale looks vaguely taken aback and Crowley starts thinking of how to take it back and kick him out of his house.

“It did not seem at all peaceful in here when I knocked on the door, but yes. A glass of wine sounds nice,” he answers.

Crowley has to pour Aziraphale’s wine into the glass he had been using and pour his own into a coffee mug with the excuse that he hasn’t unpacked the rest of his stemware yet.[37] They stand on opposite sides of the kitchen island and when Crowley graciously asks how business is over at the bookshop Aziraphale is more than happy to describe the couple that had come in reeking of sunscreen and tried to get him to part with one of his first editions.

* * *

The Plant Catastrophe seemed to mark a difference for Aziraphale and Crowley. Aziraphale would come by Crowley’s house with Crowley’s junk mail as an excuse. He would pretend to be upset and berate Crowley for not knowing his own address, but then he would pat Creature on the head and ask for a progress report on the garden or some other aspect of Crowley’s home repairs. The two would then have a chat over tea and usually some sort of baked good that Aziraphale would claim he had too much of. Crowley had decided he wanted to learn how to cook and Aziraphale was more than willing to taste test his creations. He was usually politely supportive but had to beg Crowley to never make spaghetti bolognese again.

Crowley finds himself bringing cocoa from the cafe over to the bookshop on his jaunts into town. He likes to lurk between the overfull shelves and stand menacingly close to unwanted visitors.[38] He winds up spending quite a bit of time at the bookshop, actually. It’s quiet and peaceful and once Crowley learns which books he’s allowed to touch, Aziraphale is content to let him wander while he pretends to do inventory.

Anathema decides that Crowley simply must join their trivia night team over at the pub on Wednesdays. The team consists of her, Newt, and Madame Tracy and they always come in dead last. Aziraphale tells Crowley that he must remain strong and never give in to Anathema’s pleading lest he lose whatever dignity he has. Apparently, Aziraphale used to be their fourth and he has yet to live down the shame of not knowing what “The Star Wars” is. Instead, Aziraphale and Crowley commandeer a corner booth on Wednesdays to show moral support and argue over the questions.

Spring wears on into summer and Crowley is nearly content with his new home. His mattress and box spring still sit on the floor and the kitchen is still as hideous as it was on day one, but he’s getting there. Newt has taken to listing off furniture stores in London every time Crowley goes to the cafe lately. Thinking about the oppressive closeness of the city makes Crowley’s palms sweat, but he knows eventually he’ll have to bite the bullet. For now, though, that’s a problem for a different day.

Crowley decides his back garden is missing something. He thinks it’s the damn lattice arch that’s still bare and in disrepair. It’s just that the humidity and the heat deter him from taking a hammer to it. Not to mention his vegetables don’t seem to want to cooperate at all, no matter how many threats he hurls at what few plants were actually sprouting. He isn’t having any problems with the herbs, though. In fact, the mint is growing like anything. Crowley is almost intimidated by it’s tenacity.

True to his word, Thursdays are reserved for Anathema. They usually alternate between eating takeout on Crowley’s couch and binge watching shows on Netflix,[39] long lunches at the cafe, and darts at the pub. Some of the more notable activities she forces him into include having his tea leaves read by Madame Tracy (who’s real name is Marjorie Potts, apparently), helping Newt’s mum communicate with the spirit she firmly believes is inhabiting her attic, and allowing Anathema to attempt a variety of spells on his failing vegetable garden.

Crowley also learns more than he wants to about the climate crisis (which is depressing) and about Anathema’s attempts to infiltrate the city council (which is delightful). She starts teaching him Spanish[40] and she proudly shows him the succulent she keeps in her kitchen. Crowley becomes helplessly fond of her.

Crowley scowls and grumbles his way through the days, but in all honesty it’s the best summer he’s ever had.[41] He does exactly as he wishes at the pace he wishes to do it. Creature reaches that adolescent stage where all she wants to do is fight everything that moves. He still hasn’t made time to go to the beach.

It’s sometime halfway through July when Aziraphale discovers what he considers to be that unforgivable oversight. Aziraphale had brought over a piece of junk mail promising a very affordable life insurance policy and a bottle of some sort of berry wine that a friend of Anathema’s had bottled on a full moon or whatever when Crowley admits to not visiting the beach. Aziraphale had worn an expression that would’ve been appropriate for when one of your oldest friends tells you “Actually, vaccines are fake all you really need to do is rub an amethyst all over your body and it turns out apple cider vinegar can cure a broken leg” and let out a long, world weary sigh. He then told Crowley to be ready at 11 the next morning and left with a stern glare not just for Crowley but for Creature too.

So there Crowley is, haunting his living room wearing his customary too tight jeans and plain grey v-neck. Aziraphale knocks on Crowley’s door at 11 on the dot and Crowley shares one last look with Creature, who’s lounging on the couch and blinking slowly at him, before answering the summons. Crowley blinks behind his lenses when he sees Aziraphale. The blonde is wearing beige linen pants with a white button down with the sleeves folded up to his elbows and a beaming smile. He has a wicker picnic basket slung over one arm and Crowley doesn’t even bother looking to see what shoes he had chosen for the occasion. He knows they would be the ratty trainers and the weather is so pleasant that he isn’t in the mood to ruin anything.

Rather than leave through the front door, Aziraphale bustles him through his own house and out the back and through the gate. They wade through the tall yellow grass to the crest of the hill where Crowley is able to see the wide expanse of the sea. He is so taken by the neverending horizon and the light breeze rippling the grass around them that he almost catches Aziraphale’s elbow to request the stop and settle right there. Aziraphale is already making his unsteady way down the slope, though, so Crowley hustles to catch up with him. Aziraphale stumbles partway down so Crowley places a bracing arm across his lower back and slips the basket off his arm.

Aziraphale leads him down the rest of the slope and, after a clumsy scramble down a shallow ledge, they are on the beach. Crowley is immediately drawn towards the water, but Aziraphale tugs him a ways down the beach. He briefly glimpses a large crowd near the boardwalk but Aziraphale leads him in the opposite direction. They pick their way through the pitted sand for about ten minutes until they catch sight of a dilapidated, rotted old pier. Aziraphale takes the basket from Crowley and pulls out a tightly folded quilt that he shakes out and lays out in the sand. He gestures for Crowley to sit so he toes off his cheap loafers and sits cross legged on the pale green blanket.

Aziraphale sits down carefully and unties his trainers before taking them off and setting them to the side of the blanket. He tucks his socks into his shoes and stretches his legs out on the blanket. Crowley watches him lean back on his elbows and tilt his head back to soak up the sun. A small smile unfurls as he closes his eyes and the sun glints off his soft blonde curls. Crowley is struck by the sudden need to remove his sunnies so he pushes them up to rest on the top of his head, pinning back the strands that seem determined to flop over on his forehead in the process, and he realizes something.

Aziraphale is quite handsome. It is the most absurd thing that Crowley has ever beared witness to. Aziraphale has such pale skin except for the rose colored blush on his cheeks, either from the exertion from the walk or the sun, and Crowley can just make out a pale dusting of freckles on his forearms. His hair is nearly platinum in the sunlight and curled so delicately and effortlessly that Crowley just knows they are completely devoid of product or any intentional styling. He has that perfect cupid’s bow and Crowley can see the evident smile lines and crow’s feet that come from a lifetime of smiling. Aziraphale must sense Crowley’s gaze because he turns to look at him before Crowley can look away. Aziraphale’s eyes are an intriguing sort of hazel. They’re mostly blue that seems to reflect the cloudless sky above them with flecks of an earthy sort of brown.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes. Crowley does his best to look away but finds himself trapped in that blue-brown gaze and helplessly picks at stray fuzz on the blanket instead. “I don’t think I’ve seen you without your sunglasses before.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley mumbles and wrinkles his nose. Thankfully, Aziraphale turns his face back towards the sun. Crowley faces the tide and watches it grasp at the sand.

“You have such lovely eyes,” Aziraphale says, almost as if to himself, “brown eyes don’t get the praise they deserve, and yours are so light that they’re almost golden. Seems a shame to keep them hidden.” Crowley’s eyes snap over to Aziraphale, but his eyes are closed against the sun’s rays. He leans forward to open the wicker basket for something to do with his hands. He pulls out a carefully wrapped plate of what looks like cucumber sandwich halves and a bowl of fruit. He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves.

“It’s nobody’s business what my eyes get up to,” Crowley says, unwrapping the sandwiches. Aziraphale doesn’t answer, he just leans forward to grab a sandwich and moans softly around a bite.

Crowley had noticed that strange little habit of his and he still doesn’t know what to think of it. The first time it had happened Crowley had thought he was having him on. He didn’t quite know how to address it without sounding like a massive creep[42] so Crowley has stuck to surveillance. His results are inconclusive so far and thus require further observation.

“You’ve never asked about the sunglasses,” Crowley muses even though his self preservation instincts are telling him to let the subject drop, “even Anathem asked about them eventually.”

“It didn’t seem very polite. Like you said, it’s nobody’s business. Anathema, bless her, has never cared for what is polite and what isn’t. You two are an awful lot alike in that respect,” Aziraphale tells him. He brushes the crumbs off his hands and reaches into the basket. He pulls out two little bottles of wine, like the sort that one usually finds in gift baskets or as party favors, and hands one to Crowley.

“Oh, now that is rich. You can call the fuzz on me but God forbid you ask me why I’m wearing sunglasses in a pub.” Crowley wipes the condensation off his bottle on his trousers and struggles with the twist top.

“You are never going to let that go, are you?” Aziraphale takes the bottle from him and opens it with ease before handing it back.

“Thank you, and no, I’m not. You’re a terrible neighbor and I can’t believe you’re gonna sit here and slander me and dear, sweet Anathema.”

“If I knew it would cause this much trouble I would’ve just asked about the sunglasses.” They both take a drink. Aziraphale winces and gives his bottle a dirty look but Crowley quite likes it. It’s some sort of sparkling white and he thinks it pairs nicely with the cucumber sandwiches. “Alright, then, what is it with you and the sunglasses?”

“Aziraphale, how could you? That’s a very impolite question, you know.”

“You’re a fiend.”

“Yeah, it’s one of my better qualities.” They fall quiet for a moment and Aziraphale looks like he’s going to let the matter drop. Crowley sighs and fixes his gaze on the sea. “There’s no real reason for it, honestly. Just feels better.”

Crowley has no earthly idea where this need for honesty is coming from. He doesn’t owe Aziraphale any of this. So what if they were spending more and more time together? So what if he finds himself thinking about Aziraphale in the idle hours before he goes to bed? Just because they’ve become something like friends doesn’t mean Crowley needs to go around telling the man things about himself.

“That sounds like a real enough reason to me.”

Aziraphale can’t go around just saying things like that. Crowley doesn’t need to be _validated_. What’s he supposed to do with that?

“Enough. I’m drinking by the sea and I want to talk about something interesting while I do it.”

The afternoon passes pleasantly after that. Aziraphale drags Crowley’s driving skills through the mud and Crowley teases him for never even learning how to drive. Crowley gets bored of sitting on the blanket and drags Aziraphale down to the surf to look for seashells. If Crowley gets a little too excited about finding a sand dollar Aziraphale is polite enough not to mention it.

### Footnotes

35. Crowley would win that bet. However, he fails to mention that he also likes to sit on park benches and feed the ducks.return to text

36. Anathema absolutely hid charms in Crowley’s house, but they were for peace and protection. She likes Crowley’s prickly nature and wouldn’t dream of changing him.return to text

37. Here “unpacked” means “I forgot which box they were in and I broke the rest of them when I unceremoniously dropped the box in the floor”.return to text

38. Crowley quickly discovered that any and all visitors are classified as ‘unwanted’.return to text

39. They had recently started The Good Place and it’s a testament to his respect for Anathema that he refrains from watching ahead.return to text

40. It’s slow going. Crowley has yet to learn how to roll his R’s.return to text

41. Except for the summer after his second year at uni that he spent wandering around Rome admiring the architecture. A fling with a handsome Italian man certainly hadn’t hurt, either.return to text

42. “Yes, excuse me, why are you moaning like a porn star in the middle of this cafe? Why do you eat like that? Surely that salad can’t taste _that_ good?”return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i should put a disclaimer out that i'm an american who has never been to england before so if any of crowley's plants wouldn't thrive in that climate let's all just agree to look the other way. and again i just have to say thank you so much for all the positive responses and i'm glad y'all are along for the ride


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Anathema hosts a dinner party, Crowley receives some news, and loses a fight with a lattice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **cw:** crowley accidentally hurts himself in this chapter. it's very minor and not at all graphic but there is mention of some blood. there is also brief mentions of a past unhealthy relationship.

August is winding down to a close and the only things Crowley has managed to grow in his garden is a handful of sad looking beans and a solid fucking ton of mint. He leaves the beans on Anathema’s front porch with a note that says _go back to witch school. -c_. He clears out the evidence of his failure and considers salting the ground just to really make a point.

That Thursday Anathema decides to show off her cooking skills and invites Crowley, Aziraphale, and Newt to her home for dinner. Crowley, in what he considers to be a rare fit of good manners, gives Aziraphale a ride. Aziraphale clutches the door handle for the duration of the drive and upon arriving at Anathema’s demands to see Crowley’s driver’s license as proof he does, in fact, know what he’s doing.

“Anthony?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed as he looks at Crowley’s license.

“You don’t like it,” Crowley accuses, reaching out to snatch back his license. Aziraphale holds it just out of reach.

“I didn’t say that. What does the J stand for?”

“Eh, just a J, really.”

Aziraphale gives Crowley a Look, but doesn’t press any further and hands back his license. Crowley tucks it back into his wallet with an eye roll and ushers Aziraphale into the house.

Anathema’s home always smells intensely like herbs, usually sage, and there’s all sorts of talismans and strange art covering every inch of wall space. Her furniture is dreadfully mismatched but Crowley is sure that’s on purpose. It’s cluttered and chaotic and suits Anathema perfectly.

Crowley follows Aziraphale further into Anathema’s home and sees Newt already setting the table. He looks more put together than usual with a blue and black plaid button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dark wash jeans, though his hair is as unruly as ever. He offers them a wave and nearly drops one of the bright yellow plates in the process.

“Alright there, Newt?” Crowley asks and decides to help prevent disaster by taking the stack of napkins and silverware off the top plate in Newt’s hands. Newt thanks him with a soft smile as Anathema enters the room, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“Oh, great, you’re here. Aziraphale, come pick out the wine. You know I’m terrible at that sort of thing,” she says by way of greeting.

“Have I ever told you how fond I am of bossy women?” Aziraphale asks as he follows her back into the kitchen. Anathema throws her head back and laughs, wrapping one arm behind Aziraphale’s back. Newt huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. Crowley cocks an eyebrow at him in question.

“She’s a force of nature,” he says with a smile, “Well, they both are, really. Did you know that when the primary school tried cutting out the art program they organized a sit in protest?”

“Really,” Crowley answers, intrigued, “and how long did that last?”

“Three days. It was just the two of them but they were so irritating that the school gave in and kept the program.” It’s Crowley’s turn to laugh. He can just picture the two of them making some poor school administrator’s life a living hell.

“What’s so funny?” Aziraphale asks, returning with a bottle of something white.

“Newt was just telling me about your sit in at the school,” Crowley tells him as he straightens a fork so it sits just right on the napkin.

“Oh, goodness. It was Anathema’s sit in, really, I was just there for support. She was kind enough to lend me a guitar to play when a little too much work was getting done in the office,” he informs Crowley. He starts to pour out the wine and Newt takes his turn to help out in the kitchen.

“You play the guitar?” Crowley asks incredulously. Aziraphale finishes pouring a glass and sets it down before leaning in.

“Not even a little bit,” he says conspiratorially, “it was wretched, everyone hated it.” He does a little shimmy with a self satisfied smile and goes back to pouring wine in the last two glasses while Crowley gapes at him. “Anyway, it was for a good cause. Children need creative outlets.” Crowley has to smile, he has to. He sincerely wishes he had been there to see that. Aziraphale glances up to meet his eyes and returns the smile.

Anathema chooses that moment to return with an enormous bowl with some sort of pasta and Newt in tow with a bowl of his own containing salad. She sets the bowl down in the center of the table and gestures to the space next to it for Newt to place his bowl down.

“Lemon spinach pasta,” she announces proudly with her hands on her hips. She glances between Aziraphale, who is still clutching the wine bottle, and Crowley, who is trying to smooth his face into something neutral, and begins to smile. She pulls out a chair and takes a seat, her arms crossed like she’s very interested in where everyone else chooses to sit at the circular table.

The three men exchange looks, thinking this might be some sort of bizarre test. Newt hesitantly takes the seat on Anathema’s right, Aziraphale takes the one on her left, and that leaves Crowley across from Anathema. Anathema surveys the table seriously for a moment before clapping her hands together once and breaking out into a grin.

“Good choice,” she praises, “and if my cards are correct we should experience a fortuitous turn of events sometime in the near future.” Crowley decides he wants his own set of tarot cards so he can start reading her future. See how well she likes it when the tables are turned.

The lemon spinach pasta is fantastic and, Anathema assures them, vegan. Crowley thinks he might try growing spinach of his own. Maybe Anathema will teach him how to cook this for himself. The meal passes pleasantly, the conversation flowing easily. Newt seems to be more comfortable here in Anathema’s home than Crowley has ever seen him. Him and Aziraphale get started trading terrible customer stories that have Crowley feeling desperately grateful to not be working in the service industry.

Once dinner is finished and the dishes cleared away they arrange themselves in the living room with fresh glasses of wine. Anathema brings out Cards Against Humanity with a wicked glint in her eyes and Crowley can’t wait to see how scandalized Aziraphale gets. He’s severely disappointed when none of the cards seem to phase him at all.

“Aziraphale, I’m sorry, but what happened to your Victorian sensibilities?” Crowley demands when he lays down a particularly dirty card and Aziraphale reads it out with a straight face. Aziraphale gives an undignified snort.

“I’m not responsible for the version of me that lives in your head, Crowley,” he responds primly as he chooses the card that ends up belonging to Newt as the winner. Crowley nearly chokes on his wine as Anathema cackles.

The next three of Crowley’s turns he manages to choose Aziraphale’s card as the winner as if the universe is determined to prove a point. The first round of the game ends with Aziraphale as the winner, Anathema in second place, Newt in third, and Crowley in last. Crowley watches Anathema shuffle the cards with narrowed eyes.

“So, Crowley, have you named your cottage yet?” she asks.

“My cottage? Is that a thing?” he responds as he puts the cards in his hand in order from what he considers to be most promising to least.

“Yes, it’s a thing. Your pompous arse is currently sitting in Jasmine Cottage,” she tells him before leaning over to explain what a card means to Newt.

“I suppose yours has a name, too,” he says to Aziraphale.

“Of course it does. Eastern Gate,” Aziraphale answers and takes a sip of wine, “there’s a sign on my fence that says as much, you know.”

“You know I don’t read, angel.” Anathema’s attention snaps over to Crowley.

“Oh yes, so sorry my dear, how could I forget. That would explain why you lost.” Crowley leans back on one elbow and glares at Aziraphale.

“Yeah? How ‘bout I-”

“Okay!” Anathema interrupts. “Let’s get this round started, yeah?”

Crowley grumbles under his breath and Aziraphale gives him a smug look out of the corner of his eye, but they let the round commence. While Newt dithers on his turn, Crowley’s phone buzzes several times in quick succession. He sighs and leans forward a bit to remove his phone from his back pocket.

**Beez:** hey wyd nxt weekend  
 **Beez:** warlock is in desprte need of fresh air  
 **Beez:** also i want 2 see ur new place  
 **Beez:** crowley  
 **Beez:** crowley  
 **Beez:** i will hurt u

Crowley heaves a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

**Crowley:** weekend is wide open  
 **Crowley:** ur v impatient u do know that right  
 **Beez:** ok see u nxt sat

Well, fuck. His home is nowhere near ready for guests. He scrubs a hand down his face as he stares blankly down at his phone screen. He figures Beez and Warlock can sleep in his bed and he can take the couch, but his bed is still lacking a bed frame. Everything is out of the boxes and generally where it’s supposed to be so that’s something at least. He has a little over a week to prepare and Crowley suddenly wonders what exactly he’s been doing for the last however many months.

“Crowley? Is something wrong?” Newt asks, interrupting his train of thoughts.

“No, not wrong,” Crowley answers. Then after a quick internal debate continues, “I will apparently be having guests.”

“Oh, well that’s...nice?” Newt offers. Crowley shrugs and decides he’s said all he wants to on the subject for the time being. No need to derail the game for the sake of his decor related anxieties.

“Yeah, anyway whose turn is it?”

* * *

Crowley draws up a game plan for getting his home ready for Beez and Warlock. He finds bulleted lists help keep him focused and on track. With his list in hand, he starts in his bedroom and works his way methodically through the rest of the house.

He’s in the process of determining the set up of his sitting room[43] when he remembers it’s pub quiz night. Crowley growls in frustration as he fights to extract his phone from his back pocket. He taps the contact for Disgusting Bookshop and holds the phone to his ear.

“Hello, you’ve reached A.Z. Fell and Co. Antiquarian Books. I’m afraid we’re closed-”

“It’s me.”

“Oh, Crowley! Thank goodness, I thought you were that horrible Daniel fellow who simply won’t leave me alone about that copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. How are you, old chap?”

Crowley barely manages to suppress a sigh.

“Fine, thanks. Listen, I can’t come to pub night.”

“Oh, that’s...that’s too bad.”

“Yeah, something’s come up. Let’s try for next week.”

“Madame Tracy will be inconsolable. You know she thinks you’re some sort of good luck charm.”

Crowley snorts.

“Right, I’m sure she’ll survive. They’re used to last place at this point.” There’s a short pause. “Well, I’ll see you when I see you, I suppose.”

“Yes, quite. Goodbye, Crowley.”

Crowley shoves his phone back in his pocket and sighs. He needs to double check that his DVDs are in alphabetical order.

* * *

When Crowley is satisfied that the inside of his home is as good as it’s going to get[44] he stands out on his back porch and scowls at his backyard. Something about it isn’t quite right and he’s convinced it’s the lattice work framing the back gate. He stalks through his yard towards the arch armed with a hammer and a pocket full of the thinnest nails he could find at the general store.

Crowley zeroes in on the damaged parts of the lattice and applies the back end of the hammer to pull out the nails, discarding the brittle plastic on the ground at his feet. The day is hot and he has to wipe his hands on his jeans twice before resettling his grip on the hammer while he single mindedly attacks the weak points of the arch. One nail in particular decides to be stubborn. He hooks the hammer around the nail and yanks with all his strength, but it simply won’t budge.

Crowley takes a moment to catch his breath and redoubles his efforts. He makes sure the nail is securely between the two prongs and braces his feet at the base of the lattice. He sucks in a deep breath and puts all his weight behind pulling down on the nail. For a moment, it looks like the nail migrates a fraction of an inch then it all goes straight to hell. The arch collapses completely. Crowley’s arse becomes intimately acquainted with the ground and something, probably the hammer, connects with his nose as shards of dirty white plastic rain down around him.

Crowley lays on the ground with his eyes squeezed shut and does his very best to pretend nothing has happened. He clings to the moment seconds before when he still had his dignity and his face didn’t hurt as hard as he can before he has to face the reality of his situation. He’s still firmly in that fantasy when he feels a shadow pass over him.

“Oh, dear. Are you alright?”

Crowley has, unfortunately, become horribly familiar with that posh voice. He lays as still as possible and hopes this is all some sort of concussion induced hallucination. The silence stretches for so long he’s almost convinced himself that’s what’s happening.

“Crowley? Can you hear me? Do I need to ring for an ambulance? Only, that might take some time seeing as how we’re a bit out of the way and my first aid knowledge is quite rudimentary.”

Only Aziraphale can rattle on while Crowley lays in the dirt on death’s door. He considers trying to ignore it all until Aziraphale leaves, but he can hear the other man sucking in a breath to continue fretting. Crowley groans and reaches a hand up to push his sunglasses out of the way and rests his palm over his eyes.

“If you call for an ambulance I will never forgive you, Aziraphale, I swear I won’t.” Crowley’s face feels wet and his tailbone isn’t pleased with the situation.

“Oh, thank God. I thought you might have been seriously injured and I wasn’t sure at all what to do.”

“Oi, I am seriously injured,” Crowley grouses and peeks through his fingers, “not to inconvenience you or anything, but I’m dying.” Aziraphale appears to have paused mid-hand wringing and is peering down at him with a little worry crease between his brows. Aziraphale’s eyes sweep across the scene before landing back on Crowley’s one exposed eye. He appears to steel himself.

“I really don’t think you’re dying, but let’s get you up,” he says and bends down to hook his hands under Crowley’s armpits. He lifts Crowley up and sets him on his feet with such a dizzying speed Crowley’s equilibrium is briefly thrown off. His sunglasses slam back down onto the bridge of his nose and flinches and the sharp flash of pain. He tries to wipe some of the blood off his face, but Aziraphale snatches his hand away.

“Don’t, you’ll get dirt everywhere and stain your clothes,” Aziraphale commands. Crowley isn’t able to get a word in edgewise as Aziraphale resettles his grip on Crowley’s wrist and places his other hand on the small of Crowley’s back as he guides him back towards the house. Aziraphale tuts and fusses all the while as he ushers him through his own house into the bathroom.

Creature decides Crowley is the most interesting thing in the world and follows them, meowing all the while, until Aziraphale picks her up and sets her outside the bathroom before shutting the door. He mutters under his breath about her many character failings as he situates Crowley down on the toilet seat and digs through his cabinet.

“Where on earth is your first aid kit? Ah, here it is.” Aziraphale opens the metal box and gives Crowley the side eye. “You do not maintain this at all, my dear.”

Crowley shrugs and tries to use the hand towel to clean his face off, but Aziraphale isn’t having it. He takes the towel, runs it under the faucet, and squeezes the excess water out. He kneels at Crowley’s feet and starts to gently clean his face. He swipes the cloth across his cheekbone and hesitates.

“I’m sorry Crowley, but your glasses are in the way. Feel free to decline, of course, but this might be a little easier if you removed them.”

Aziraphale asks it so softly that it’s almost worse than if he had just removed his glasses without warning. Crowley hesitates and still Aziraphale waits patiently at his feet, the towel hovering in the space between them. Crowley reaches up and unhooks his glasses from the backs of his ears, folds them, and sets them beside the sink. Crowley sees a small smile form on Aziraphale’s face before Crowley’s gaze darts away and lands on the towel rack fixed to the opposite wall.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says and gently wipes away the rest of the blood from his face. It’s quiet in the bathroom for a time. Aziraphale pauses at one point to rinse the cloth out in the sink before reapplying it. Crowley realizes this is the kindest way anyone has touched him in a very, very long time.

Crowley had given up dating something around his mid-twenties. He had given his heart away to someone who withheld kindness in exchange for Crowley’s compliance. Luke had been Crowley’s entire world, someone he had bent over backwards trying to please and always coming up short. Eventually, Luke had grown tired of Crowley’s endless need of reassurance, the need to be told he was Good, and the need to be held, and he had left. Crowley had come home to a half empty flat and had never heard from Luke again. It took some time, but Crowley had filled the blank spaces left behind and had decided it was safer by far to keep himself to himself. There were apps for the nights his bed felt particularly cold and he didn’t have to feel guilty about vanishing with the sunrise. It works for Crowley. He’s happy with his decision. But no one, not even his parents when he was a little boy with skinned knees, had tended to him like this. He shuts his eyes under the weight of this revelation.

“It’s not so bad,” Aziraphale says, “you have a cut on the bridge of your nose, but it’s nothing a plaster can’t cover.”

“Do you have anything in there for my arse? Because that’s higher up on my list at the moment,” Crowley jokes, trying to disperse the tension he had created. He expects Aziraphale to tut and say something about his foul language but, ever contrary, Aziraphale huffs out a laugh.

“There doesn’t appear to be anything to rectify bony arses, but I do have some devil’s food cake over at mine that might help with that.” Crowley doesn’t squawk, because that’s undignified, but he does make some sort of noise of protest and opens his eyes to glare at Aziraphale.

“Oh, so you’ve got jokes now, huh?” Aziraphale doesn’t respond to that but looks inordinately pleased with himself. He tears open a packet of sterilizing wipes.

“This is going to sting,” he warns and then dabs it across the cut on his nose. Crowley hisses at the sharp flare of pain and does his best to remain still. Aziraphale holds his chin with his other hand, his thumb braced just beneath his lips and the other curled under his jaw. He turns Crowley’s face this way and that, assessing the job he’s done. Something about that firm yet gentle grip and his eyes, mostly a summer’s blue today, tracing over his face makes Crowley ball his hands into fists. Aziraphale pulls away and Crowley doesn’t dare move an inch. He pulls a plaster out of the first aid kit and removes the wrapper, then his hands are braced on either side of Crowley’s face as he applies the plaster to the bridge of his nose. He smooths the edges down a few times and smiles up at Crowley.

“There, that should do you. Anathema is going to laugh at you,” Aziraphale tells him and Crowley winces, “what on earth were you trying to do to that poor lattice?”

“My sibling and nephew are coming to visit and that lattice was a disgrace so,” Crowley says with a shrug. Aziraphale stands up and brushes off imaginary specks of dirt from his knees.

“Warlock, right?”

“Yeah, and Beez.” Aziraphale does a strange little shimmy as if he’s pleased to have remembered his nephew’s name. He packs away the first aid kit and tucks it back into the cabinet under the sink. Crowley stands as well and adjusts his waistband. He can tell a bruise is forming across his lower back.

“Oh, how nice. You can show them the beach!”

“You and that bloody beach. Warlock is going through that phase where he thinks everything is shite but yes, I planned on taking them to the beach.”

Aziraphale opens the bathroom door and leads them out. Creature cries as if she’s a wife who’s husband has just returned from sea and Crowley sighs as he picks her up and settles her into the crook of his arm. Crowley follows Aziraphale to the front door and watches as he steps out onto the porch.

“Well, thanks for,” Crowley trails off and gestures uselessly at his face. Aziraphale turns back to face him, looking alarmed.

“Aren’t you coming over? I told you I had cake.”

“Yeah, well, y’know. The lattice.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley. You need tea and cake after that incident. You may bring Ms. Creature as long as you prevent her from climbing up my curtains. I know how you like to let her just run wild in here.”

Crowley has never been inside Aziraphale’s home before for all that Aziraphale loves barging into Crowley’s home. He had expected it to be like the bookshop[45] but that’s not the case at all. Sure, there’s bookshelves that are bearing a weight no self respecting piece of furniture should be bearing and there’s at least one book on every surface, but it’s far more organized.

The color scheme is vastly different from Crowley’s and seems to amplify the natural light. It’s all creams and blues and beiges. There’s a suspicious lack of a television, but there is an outdated stereo system and CD rack. He has several bronze bookends of what appears to be figures from Greek mythology. The walls are a rich, deep brown color and there’s water color paintings adorning them. Crowley pauses at one that looks like the old pier Aziraphale had taken him to, but Aziraphale tugs him along to the kitchen.

Crowley sets Creature down and takes a look around at his kitchen. The walls are painted a vibrant red and it appears to be meticulously organized. Aziraphale definitely owns far more appliances than Crowley does. He can spot a bread maker, a waffle iron, and what might be a sandwich press. If Aziraphale knows how to cook Crowley is going to be quite cross with him for not offering any pointers.

Aziraphale puts the kettle on and serves Crowley a piece of the promised devil’s food cake. He even puts out a small dish of shredded chicken for Creature. Crowley doesn’t get any more work done on his lattice, but he does get the privilege of inspecting Aziraphale’s bookshelves.

### Footnotes

43. Is the couch centered? Should he iron the curtains? Thank fuck his furniture is dark so you can’t tell exactly how much cat hair is on every surface.return to text

44. His furniture is centered with laser precision and he has bleached and scrubbed every surface several times.return to text

45. cluttered all to hell and vaguely unkemptreturn to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i had this chapter all written, then decided to make some changes, then decided to scrap half of it and rewrite it. so! we had a little delay and i'm as content as i'll ever be with this chapter. thanks so much for the patience and as a reward i want to share the playlist i have for this fic


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Warlock and Beez come to visit, Aziraphale thinks he knows sleight of hand, and Crowley shows off the beach

It rains the day Beez and Warlock arrive because it’s England and that’s what England does best. Crowley ushers them inside and counts it as a win when Warlock glances up from his phone to give Crowley a one armed hug. Beez takes a slow look around the sitting room while Crowley prattles on about tea or throwing together something to eat.[46]

“Slow down. Give me a tour,” they tell him, cutting off his monologue.

Warlock settles in on the couch while Crowley leads Beez on a tour of his cottage. Beez is the only family that Crowley acknowledges or respects. Even though they’re the younger sibling, they have always, always had Crowley’s back. Their parents had loved Beez with their grades just good enough to escape notice and all acts of rebellion hidden well away from their parents. Crowley had been too loud, too argumentative, too defiant for their parents’ taste. Beez was softer spoken and was far better than Crowley at picking their battles. When their parents had tried to throw Crowley out when he got caught with his first boyfriend in his bedroom Beez had dug in their heels. They’re cleverer than he is by far and better at clearly getting their point across.

Beez has been there for all of Crowley’s successes and, more importantly, for all of his failures. They know when to let Crowley mope and when he needs a reality check. Crowley was able to pay a little of that back when they came out themselves, though Beez has never needed Crowley to rough anyone up who cracked jokes about their pronouns. They took their parents’ disownment with far more grace than Crowley had. He is immensely proud of them and was over the moon happy for them when they got approved for Warlock’s adoption.

Beez takes in the cottage in silence until they reach the kitchen. They wrinkle their nose in distaste.

“Really, Crowley? This kitchen is shite.”

“That’s real nice, thanks,” he says and rolls his eyes. He’s been working on it, he really has, it’s just that he hasn’t found the perfect shade of yellow. He has a very specific vision for his kitchen and nothing is quite right.

“What? It is. Everything else is coming along, though. It’s got potential,” they tell him as they cross back into the sitting room and flop down on the couch next to Warlock. That’s high praise coming from Beez so he lets it slide. He looms in the threshold between the kitchen and the sitting room with his hands on his hips.

“So, what do you lot want to do first? Some tea? A trip into town?” Crowley asks. Before anyone has a chance to answer there’s a knock at the door which is just great. The last thing he needs is for Anathema to show up and start reading everyone’s aura. Crowley ignores it and hopes whoever it is goes away.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Warlock asks without looking up from his phone. Crowley taps his foot.

“No. Should I put the kettle on?”

Warlock suddenly decides to display the fact that he does, in fact, have manners[47] and gets up to answer the door. The door swings open to reveal Aziraphale holding a glass platter with some sort of cake on it. He has his Customer Service smile on and Crowley winces.

“Who are you, then?” Warlock asks, blunt as ever, and Crowley can’t help but feel a little proud. Aziraphale’s eyes flick over Warlock’s shoulder and land on Crowley and he redoubles his smile.

“My name is Mr. Fell, I live next door.” His announcement is met with silence. “I, er, I brought cake! It’s chocolate with vanilla icing.”

“What sort of icing?” Warlock asks, cocking his head.

“Buttercream, of course,” responds Aziraphale, looking affronted as if he would’ve chosen any other sort of icing. Warlock glances over at Crowley and peers at him through his curtain of dark hair.

“Let him in, Warlock. Don’t make him stand on the porch holding a cake like a prat,” Crowley says with a wave of his hand. Warlock opens the door wider and stands to the side to admit Aziraphale. Aziraphale gives Warlock a more sincere sort of smile as he passes him to go stand next to Crowley. He’s looking expectantly at Crowley and holding the cake and smiling and he just looks totally ridiculous.

“Right. This is Aziraphale. Aziraphale this is my sibling Beez and their son, Warlock,” Crowley says, gesturing lazily between them.

“That’s your arsehole neighbor?” Beez asks, looking deeply unimpressed. Aziraphale sucks his teeth.

“The one and only,” Crowley answers, “he’s not so bad as long as you don’t live next door to him.” He gives Aziraphale a smirk and Aziraphale rolls his eyes in return.

“Crowley mentioned you’d be coming to visit so I thought I’d bring over a welcome gift. I’ll just put the kettle on, shall I?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Crowley assents. Aziraphale bustles off to the kitchen and Beez raises their eyebrows.

“Knows his way around, does he?” they ask. Crowley doesn’t much care for their tone of voice. It’s not his fault that Aziraphale has insinuated his way into Crowley’s space, is it? Warlock settles back in on the couch and props his feet up on the coffee table, which Beez promptly shoves back off. Rather than acknowledge their raised eyebrow, Crowley goes into the kitchen to grab his dining room chairs for extra seating. He sees Aziraphale meticulously cutting even slices of cake and rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asks without looking up.

“Getting something for us to park our arses on, unless you planned on standing up all afternoon,” Crowley answers, tucking one chair under each arm. Aziraphale looks up, a crease forming between his eyes.

“I didn’t realize I was staying,” Aziraphale responds slowly.

“You decided to come over here, now you’ve got to see it through,” Crowley says, shifting his hands so they had a better grip on the chairs.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says brightly, “I can bring out the old magic act!” Crowley groans.

“Angel, no. I’m begging you, no.”

“I’m sure Warlock would love it.”

“I can promise you he won’t.”

Crowley leaves the kitchen while Aziraphale pats down his pockets, no doubt looking for that damn coin he carries around everywhere. He barely has time to set the chairs up around the coffee table when he hears the kettle whistle. He goes back to the kitchen to help Aziraphale carry out the tea service and the cake.

It’s a quiet affair at first. Warlock actually sets his phone down, but he doesn’t touch his cake until after Crowley takes a bite and declares it to be good. Beez’s eyes don’t leave Aziraphale as they methodically work their way through their slice. Aziraphale keeps shooting nervous glances in Crowley’s direction. Crowley, ever dedicated to being a good host, grins and does absolutely nothing to dispel the awkward energy in the room.

“Aziraphale,” Beez says once everyone’s plates are empty. Aziraphale shoots another glance at Crowley.

“Yes?”

“Crowley says you’re the worst neighbor he’s ever had.”

Aziraphale heaves a sigh and gives Crowley a nasty look.

“Honestly, Crowley. I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s really not. You’re insufferable,” Crowley interjects.

“If that’s the case then I have half a mind to tell Shadwell you’ve got a cat. You’ll be on trial for witchcraft and I, for one, would love to see it,” Aziraphale tells him with a sniff.

“Y’know, that raises an interesting question. Just how good of a Witchfinder can the man really be if we’ve got Anathema running around the place just witchin’ it up?”

“Well, now, that’s actually a funny story,” Aziraphale begins, straightening up with a little wiggle. Crowley leans in, keen to hear how Anathema had dealt with the surly Scot.

“Crowley tells me you own a bookshop,” Beez interrupts, their sharp gaze watching the interaction. Aziraphale turns his attention back to them.

“Oh, yes. You might have seen it on your way in. A.Z. Fell & Co. Booksellers.”

“Who’s the Co.?” Warlock pipes in.

“There isn’t one. It’s just me,” Aziraphale tells him with a smile.

“That’s dumb.” Aziraphale, to Crowley’s surprise, laughs.

“It is, a bit,” he concedes, “I thought it sounded very grown up and professional when I first opened it. I’m too fond of it now to change it.”

“Books are boring,” Warlock declares with absolute surety. “Besides, you can read books online if you wanted.”

Crowley suddenly finds the state of his nails quite interesting indeed. It isn’t that he necessarily agrees with Warlock, but he’s certainly thought the same thing before. Crowley has a terrible time with sitting still long enough to read a book and he much prefers audio books. He had thought this best to keep to himself, though, because Aziraphale loves his shop and his books dearly. Aziraphale appears to be taking his time gathering his thoughts, taking a dainty sip of tea and pursing his lips.

“The ability to access books online is one of the better aspects of technology. It’s easier than ever to read anything and everything, and it has the added benefit of keeping people out of my shop,” Aziraphale explains. Crowley can’t help but smile into his cup. Aziraphale answering Warlock’s questions seriously, and talking to him like an adult, does something funny to Crowley’s insides. Beez snorts and Crowley looks up to see them wearing a befuddled expression.

“That sounds like a terrible business practice. Don’t you want people to buy your books?” they ask. Crowley barks out a laugh and eagerly turns his head to look at Aziraphale. Crowley is rewarded with Aziraphale’s expression, he looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.

“Yes, well, it wouldn’t do to just sell my books willy-nilly, now would it?” Aziraphale informs them and holds his plate out of reach from Creature, who has come to poach some frosting from him. Crowley bites down on a grin while Warlock and Beez exchange confused looks.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem inclined to say anymore and is apparently dedicated to Herculean task of ignoring Creature’s pitiful cries for either attention or frosting. Warlock picks at his own plate and stares at Aziraphale with a shrewd look on his face. Crowley decides it’s time to stir the pot.

“Aziraphale doesn’t know what Star Wars is.”

Beez sets down their cup and rests their head in their palm, sighing deeply. Warlock gives Aziraphale the kind of powerful side eye only available to the youth and Aziraphale turns an eye roll into a full body affair.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale protests. Crowley crosses his legs at the knee and tries a dainty sip of his own. Oh, he does so love chaos.

“Aren’t you _old_?” Warlock demands. “How do you not know?”

“You made me watch those movies again and again for decades, Crowley. Not to mention dragging me to the theater every time a new one came out and bitching for hours after,” Beez says, their tone accusational.

“How is this my fault?” Crowley asks indignantly. Aziraphale doesn’t even own a television and it’s suddenly on him that the man doesn’t know one of the most popular movie franchises, like, ever?

“I’m 37, that’s hardly old,” Aziraphale tells the room at large. Crowley holds out a hand to pause the conversation, his head cocked in confusion.

“Hold on,” he says,” you’re 37?” Aziraphale narrows his eyes in suspicion.

“Yes?”

“I’m older than you?” Oh, now Crowley is going to have some sort of crisis. Professor Antiquity over there with his pocket watch and his “bebop” is two years younger than Crowley. It doesn’t matter in any real way, but Crowley is offended anyway.

“Hardly, my dear. There’s no need to fret,” Aziraphale says with a dismissive wave of my hand. Crowley exhales noisily.

“Oh, no, Aziraphale, there’s a need to fret. This entire time you’ve been disrespecting one of your elders? That simply won’t do.”

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale murmurs and drains his cup. Crowley grins wolfishly. This new tidbit of information opens so many new doors, so many new avenues of teasing.

“If you two are going to continue to flirt I suppose me and Warlock could find something to entertain ourselves with,” Beez interrupts. An awkward silence descends on the room and Crowley finds he is incapable of looking in Aziraphale’s direction at all. Warlock seems to be desperately trying to catch Crowley’s eye but he’s far too invested in trying to coax Creature into his lap. The spoiled cat doesn’t move an inch from where she’s seated at Aziraphale’s feet and blinks slowly at Crowley as if to say “yes, I’m aware you’re speaking to me but I simply could not care any less”.

“I can do magic!” Aziraphale blurts out. “It’s fascinating, really, just give me a moment.”

Aziraphale fumblers around in his pocket before pulling out that ridiculous over-sized coin. There’s a general aura of disdain in the room, but that doesn’t seem to deter Aziraphale one tiny bit. Aziraphale stands up and makes a big show of presenting the coin and Crowley frantically shakes his head. Aziraphale appears to have gone temporarily blind because he ignores Crowley entirely. Instead, he approaches Warlock.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

Warlock looks over Aziraphale’s shoulder at Crowley, his eyes wide and questioning. Crowley shrugs and mouths for him to be nice. Warlock looks back at Aziraphale and grimaces. Aziraphale apparently takes that as permission and, with much fanfare and dramatics, pretends to pull the coin from behind Warlock and then disappears it. It might have been an alright demonstration if Aziraphale had not fumbled the coin. The coin drops heavily onto Crowley’s hardwood floor, the sound deafening in the silence. Crowley, Warlock, and Beez listen with bated breath as the coin rolls across the floor behind Aziraphale in a meandering trail towards the kitchen. Creature’s ears prick up in interest as they all[48] watch the coin spin spiritedly for a handful of revolutions before falling flat with a muted rattle. The silence is so absolute that a wincing Crowley wishes he had a great big clock to audibly count the seconds.

“Er, wow?” Warlock offers. Crowley thinks that if God exists then he deserves a special place in Heaven for not laughing because it is a truly divine amount of strength that keeps him from laughing until he cries. Beez stands up abruptly and announces they need to visit the loo. Aziraphale looks pleased as punch as he straightens up and clasps his hands in front of himself. If this is how it’s going to be, it may just be worth it to have guests over more often.

* * *

Crowley leads Beez and Warlock through the knee-height grass behind his home on their way to the beach. Warlock has his arms crossed across his chest and looks deeply unimpressed in a way that rubs Crowley the wrong way. He can’t help but remember when Aziraphale had led him across this hill and that deep feeling of inconsequence he felt upon seeing the horizon in its glory. Beez hooks their arm into his and takes a deep breath as if they haven’t smelled fresh air in years. It soothes Crowley a bit and he patiently guides them down to the dips and pits of the sand.

Warlock’s attention locks onto the waves and he stomps his way closer to the surf. He comes to a stop just shy of where the waves leave the sand a dark beige and looks out over the crisp white crests. Crowley is viscerally reminded of being Warlock’s age and the desperate daydreams of being More, of being a main character in a story that can’t possibly have a sad ending. Of being special and different and someone who the Universe takes special exception to and aligned just the right amount of twists and pitfalls to make you interesting but not so much as to damage you.

Crowley looks at that young figure, bathed in sunlight and sharp in a way he doesn’t want to admit is familiar, and unhooks his arm from Beez’s. He moves to stand beside Warlock, tucking his hands into his jean pockets.

“The beach is boring,” Warlock informs him after a long stretch of silence, “why would you move out here? London was loads better. Lots of people and things to do whenever you wanted.” Crowley takes in the question and gives it an unusual amount of thought.

“That’s a great question, and I hope you asked it in good faith because I have an answer I want you to pay attention to,” Crowley says without turning his gaze away from where the sea meets the sky. Warlock is silent and Crowley takes that as an answer.

“Someday, Warlock, you will be my age. You will be tired and worn down like a river stone that has sat in the same spot because that’s where it landed and there’s not much choice beyond allowing the current to dull its edges. You will withstand it because you’ve been told that’s the way things are and it’s to be expected. If you’re anything like me, which I suspect you might just be, there will come a day when that will be simply unacceptable. You’ll remember that voice that would rattle your bones in moments when you’re being diminished. That voice that wraps around your joints and tells you that you’re made of stardust and deserve the appropriate amount of joy that statement ought to inspire. In that moment you will throw everything you care about into a box and flee to the sea. It may or may not be this coast. It could be a thousand miles away from here or maybe thirty years from now you’ll find yourself in this spot exactly, filling the divot you made in your youth. You will stare out at a line you can’t begin to fathom, sand creeping its way into your seams, and the timeless crash of the waves against the shore and you will feel you’ve never been tired at all.”

Warlock listens in a rare fit of politeness. He takes Crowley’s words in like ripples on a still surface before he unwraps his arms. He shuffles minutely closer and Crowley gamely raises his arm to allow Warlock to lean his head against his chest. He wraps an arm around Warlock’s shoulders and they watch the tide grasp inland. Crowley bends in half to pick up a small pale pink shell the size of his pinky nail. He inspects it for flaws before pressing it into Warlock’s palm. Warlock looks down at the little shell and pushes it around in his palm with his index finger.

“Does Mr. Fell make you feel less tired?”

Crowley doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t think about cloud colored curls or knife sharp wit. Instead he thinks about the shadows that reach out after sundown and white plastic lattices.

“I suppose,” Crowley says, “he keeps things interesting, if anything.”

Warlock seems content with that answer. He stuffs the shell into his trouser pockets and wiggles out from Crowley’s hold. There’s a cacophony of sound from further down the beach that collides with Crowley.

“Sorry, Mister Crowley, sir,” Wensleydale offers over his shoulder as he chases after Brian. Pepper is wielding a stick and looks at Crowley like she may just challenge him to a sword fight. She skirts around Warlock and follows behind the other two boys like she can’t decide whether or not to double cross them. Adam brings up the rear, his golden curls and his enigmatic smile erasing the earlier rudeness.

“Hullo,” he says, addressing Warlock more so than Crowley. Warlock decides to quickly and completely forget English and stares down at where his Doc Marten is cutting an edge into the sand.

“Hey, Adam,” Crowley says cheerfully, “this is my nephew, Warlock. Warlock, say hello.” Warlock looks up at Crowley and he’s very glad that Warlock hasn’t met Anathema yet and, as far to his knowledge, doesn’t know how to cast curses with his eyes.

Adam looks amused, though, and circles around until he can get a peek at Warlock’s expression. Warlock does an odd sort of twitch like he can’t decide if he wants to pull his phone out and act like he has an urgent text to attend to or if he wants to inch back under Crowley’s arm and pretend like nothing else exists. Crowley feels what might just be a divine act of mercy and carries on with the conversation.

“What are you lot doing?” he asks. Adam locks his hands behind his back but is still trying to get a direct look at Warlock’s face.

“There’s supposed to be a dead jellyfish, but Pepper thinks if we can just push it back into the water it might be okay,” Adam tells them, “do you want to help?” He directs the question at Warlock and Crowley has to nudge him with his elbow to provoke a response.

“I guess,” Warlock mumbles. Crowley suppresses a sigh as he grips his nephew’s shoulders and turns him to face Adam. Adam grins and Crowley ushers Warlock forward. They take off down the beach and Crowley shouts the time to be back for dinner at their backs. He sighs as he watches them make their way down the beach and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Beez makes an appearance at his elbow and nudges him.

“Adam’s alright,” he tells Beez, “he’s very...vibrant.” Beez says nothing as the wind coming off the sea tugs at their clothes. “His mum is a real bear, makes a hell of a jam.”

“Let’s walk,” Beez says, reaching out to pull him in the opposite direction that Warlock and the Them went in.

They walk in silence for a time, arms linked. Beez must be nearly a foot shorter than he is, Warlock is already outgrowing them. Crowley sees a good dozen shells he’d like to pick up and inspect but Beez carries on, face tipped up just so to catch the sun’s weak rays peeking out from behind the clouds. They’ve been walking long enough in silence that Crowley is lulled into complacency.

“So, Anthony,” they.

“Oh, Christ,” Crowley groans. It’s never good when they bring out the first name.

“Don’t be a drama queen,” they admonish, veering into Crowley enough to push them off course for a moment, “I just want to know if you like it here.”

“I wouldn’t stay if I didn’t,” he answers.

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“Yeah, well. I mean it this time. Devil’s Dyke is nice. Weird.”

Beez stumbles in a particularly deep dip in the sand and Crowley steadies them. The pass a couple cuddled up on a blanket, too caught up in each other to notice the world. Beez seems to be waiting for Crowley to continue so he indulges them.

“It’s quiet here. The cottage has required a lot of my time and attention, but she’s getting there. Learned that having a garden is not the same thing as having houseplants,” he tells them, scowling for a moment at the thought of his attempt, “I’ve made friends, I suppose. Anathema is a weirdo, you two would get along famously.”

“I’m sure,” Beez says dryly. “You’ve got that neighbor feud to keep you busy, I guess.”

“Well, feud might be a bit much. Pub nights would be terribly dull without him,” Crowley responds thoughtlessly. Beez pulls their arm out from Crowley’s and points an accusing finger at him.

“I knew it!” they declare. “He’s your _friend_.”

“What?” Crowley splutters.

“You _like_ him.”

“I do _not_ like him. He has a terrible fashion sense, he’s nosy, he keeps putting vegetables in cake. Oh, yes! Frown all you want I can almost promise you he put some weird vegetable in that cake he brought over. He’s convinced I’m starving to death and keeps trying to make me eat breakfast, of all things. I’ve had to completely take over caring for the singular houseplant he has because he seems determined to kill it. He loves Hamlet, for fuck’s sake,” Crowley rants. There’s something he’s leaving out of this diatribe and he scans his brain for what it might be. “Oh, and he’s always way nicer to Creature than he is to me. He’s the worst, Beez. Completely wretched.”

Beez takes it all in with a solemn expression and politely waits to be sure Crowley is actually done speaking before they burst out laughing. They brace their hands on their knees while Crowley glares down at them.

“Oh, thank you, Crowley. I really needed that,” they gasp and wipe what Crowley thinks must be imaginary tears from their eyes. They take a look at Crowley’s expression and say, “Come on, don’t look so sour.”

“I’m not sour,” Crowley says sourly,

“For what it’s worth, I like him,” they tell him as they claim his arm again, tugging him back into their stroll, “a bookseller who doesn’t sell books and a magician who can’t do magic. And weird vegetables or no, that cake was pretty good.”

### Footnotes

46. He’s not nervous or anything. Shut up.return to text

47. Some may call it manners, Crowley calls it being a right little shit.return to text

48. Aziraphale excluded. He watches Warlock’s face with a smile pinned in place, willfully ignorant of the drama happening behind him.return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley had A Lot to say this chapter and i felt honor bound to let him
> 
> bitching about Star Wars is an important tradition for fans, one i have been known to lovingly take part in from time to time.
> 
> come chat with me on tumblr and here's the playlist


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which autumn begins, Crowley gets to know Newt, and it's Aziraphale's turn for some vulnerability.

Fall descends on the town in tiny increments and then all at once. The cold wind coming off the sea makes Crowley appreciate his natural penchant for wearing layers and his big clunky boots are perfect for stepping on the crunchy yellow, orange, and red leaves that litter the street. The tree in his own backyard, which serves as an anchor for the fairy lights he finally managed to string up, turns a beautiful shade of red and Crowley finds himself enamored with it. He thinks it serves a nice counterpoint to Aziraphale’s little yellow trees.[49]

Crowley has gotten better at cooking since the season changed. Something about fall ingredients seems to agree with him. Anathema keeps bringing over different ciders and he thinks that may just be his next kitchen attempt. Aziraphale’s baked goods all include pumpkin now and Crowley has to admit he’s a fan. Despite the jokes the Internet is fond of making, Crowley is a sucker for pumpkin flavoring. Not to mention that Newt makes an incredible soy pumpkin spiced latte.

Crowley finds himself with more free time than usual now that the bulk of the work is done on his home. The kitchen is still hideous but he’s hopeful that he’ll find the perfect shade of yellow soon. He figures it’s time to cultivate some hobbies that he can profit off of. It’s not that he needs the money, really. He has a healthy savings account he’d been diligently cultivating that’s bolstered by a tidy inheritance from his grandparents and luck with stocks. Crowley is just not accustomed to not being busy. He needs to be useful.

He sees Madame Tracy sitting in the cafe one afternoon with the blanket she was knitting draped over her lap and it seems like the sort of hobby Crowley can get behind. Tracy is kind enough to help him pick out the material he needs to get started and tries to lend him a beginner’s book, but he declines it. YouTube is Crowley’s best friend and he’s sure it’ll be a better teacher than a book.[50] He’s confident that he’ll figure out how to stop dropping his stitches any day now.

There’s some sort of fundraising event at the school that Crowley gets roped into. Newt had mentioned that the cafe would be setting up a booth and that his mother wouldn’t be able to help him run it this year so he would be doing it by himself. Anathema had batted her eyelashes at Crowley and Crowley had growled and scowled and had, in the end, acquiesced.

That’s how Crowley, on one crisp Friday morning with the sun just barely peeking over the horizon and painting everything pale pink, finds himself helping Newt load all sorts of boxes and carefully wrapped goods into the back of a simply decrepit blue monstrosity. Newt calls his car[51] Dick Turpin and Crowley isn’t going to ask Newt why in hell’s name he calls it that. The drive to the school is quiet except for the Positive Thinking playlist that Anathema had given Newt playing in the background and Crowley crosses his fingers the whole way that the car doesn’t decide to kill them both.[52]

Newt deftly and competently sets his booth up in the cafeteria while Crowley slouches off to the side and out of the way. The harsh fluorescents that his sunglasses hardly make a dent in might be flickering, but Crowley can’t decide if it’s real or imagined. The linoleum allows the heels of his boots to click in a satisfying way, but are so sterile and polished that it agitates him. Crowley hadn’t enjoyed school by any stretch of the imagination and something about being back in a school building makes him feel some odd sort of melancholy. There’s about ten other booths being set up by other adults that Crowley is startled to realize he knows by name.

Newt can’t seem to get his hotplate or the complicated looking coffee maker to cooperate with him so Crowley guesses he might as well be of some use and takes over. Newt stammers out a thank you and starts to arrange the baked goods on the simple fold out table. Crowley isn’t sure if Newt is just prone to nervousness or if something about Crowley’s general demeanor sets something off in the man.

Crowley honestly quite likes Newt. He’s an odd sort, there’s no denying that. He has a bad luck streak a mile wide and technology seems to actively hate him. Crowley has had to pay in cash several times at the cafe because Newt had apparently done something to anger the cash register gods and the machine refused to work with him. It sometimes took an unholy amount of time to get anything more complicated than a black coffee or tea since the equipment likes to take an exception to him every now and again. Crowley is particularly fond of the time that Newt had done something to piss off the panini grill and Arthur Young had had to lend Newt his grill. The subsequent cafe filled with smoke is a memory that Crowley is sure he’s going to be laughing about for years to come. He’s an anxious, sweet mess and Crowley can’t help but like it. Besides, he looks at Anathema like she hung the moon and Crowley respects that.

With the booth all set up and ready to go Crowley feels like he’s at loose ends. Newt is fiddling with the coffee maker and it’s too early for anything on his phone to be of interest to him, so Crowley is leaning against the wall and watching Maude adjust and readjust her quilting sign. Newt pushes a cheap styrofoam cup into his hands.

“What’s this?” Crowley asks, sticking his nose into the steam. It smells like hazelnut and cinnamon.

“Coffee,” Newt says and shuffles over to the table to realign the baked goods for the hundredth time. Crowley takes a sip and hums.

“This is pretty good,” he tells Newt. Newt snorts.

“You always sound so surprised.”

“I’m used to a toss up in terms of quality. I don’t have much faith in consistency, especially when it comes to coffee.”

Newt doesn’t respond right away. He decides the snickerdoodles need to switch places with the chocolate scones and shuffles things around.

“You’ve been coming to the cafe for most of the year now. I’d like to think that would warrant a little faith,” Newt says, still not looking directly at Crowley. He settles into one of the metal folding chairs while Crowley continues to hover off to the side. Crowley decides the wisest course of action is to not respond. He leans against the rough off white walls and sips at his drink.

“You’re different, you know,” Newt says after a while. His arms are crossed and he’s looking out across the empty cafeteria.

“Different how?” Crowley decides to take the bait. This whole enterprise would be awkward, after all, if they kept to the polite distance they were accustomed to.

“I don’t know,” Newt shrugs, “that first time you came in you seemed so keyed up. Like on false move and you might bolt. You seem easier now.” Silence descends again. Newt seems to realize that he may have misstepped and hastily adds, “Not that you’re easy. I just mean you seem more comfortable. I’m still scared to mess up your order.” He gives a nervous sort of laugh. Crowley’s eyebrows make a trek upwards as Newt talks and he shifts his shoulder against the wall in an attempt to get comfortable.

“Can I share a secret with you, Newt?” Newt shoots him a glance and grates out another laugh like he’s not sure where Crowley is going with this. Which is fair. Crowley is a bit of an odd sort, too. “If you messed up my order I would never dare tell you. Not because Anathema would tar and feather me, though that is a good motivator. Sometimes shit just happens. I fuck up enough that it would be hypocritical of me to get worked up over it. I save all my asshole tendencies for those who deserve it. Like Aziraphale.” Crowley smiles behind the rim of his cup. Aziraphale had brought back these fancy cat treats when he and Tracy had gone into London for something or another and Creature had hated them. Crowley had written a scathing review of the treats and signed it as Creature before leaving the note on Aziraphale’s porch this morning. He’s quite looking forward to the pout the note is bound to elicit.

“You like Aziraphale,” Newt accuses, finally looking at Crowley. He’s wearing an exasperated expression that makes Crowley want to laugh.

“Only because he made me. We all have faults, Newt.” That finally draws a genuine laugh out of Newt. Crowley deigns to sprawl out in the fold up chair set up beside Newt’s. He stretches his legs out under the fold out table and crosses his arms, cradling his cup to his chest.

Newt is more at ease after that, more willing to have an actual conversation. Crowley discovers that Newt has lived in this town all his life and has worked in the cafe that his mother had opened since he was a kid. He also, apparently, moonlights as a computer engineer which makes Crowley laugh. Newt admits he’s more likely to start an electrical fire than anything else, but he likes it and knows someday he’ll get the hang of things. They get onto the topic of cars and Newt tries to goad him into asking why, exactly, his car is named Dick Turpin, but Crowley has his limits and simply won’t budge.

Aziraphale and Anathema wander in sometime around midmorning. Anathema is wearing an all black ensemble that wouldn’t look out of place on a Victorian widow while Aziraphale is wearing his usual Bookshop Attire, as Crowley has privately dubbed his whole waistcoat getup. Their arms are linked and Aziraphale lays a hand over Anathema’s as he whispers something in her ear, making her toss her head back and laugh. Something twinges in Crowley’s chest and he looks away to inspect his cuticles.

“Hello, good sirs, what wares have ye on this good morrow?” Anathema asks, leaning over their table to inspect the baked goods. Before either Newt or Crowley can answer, Aziraphale removes his arm from Anathema’s and digs in his coat pocket.

“Crowley, what is this?” he demands, producing a scrap of paper.

“A scrap of paper,” Crowley answers dutifully. Aziraphale huffs and thrusts the paper at him. Crowley takes it and makes a big show of reading what’s written on it.

“Looks to me like Creature didn’t much care for those treats of yours,” Crowley tells him and tries to hand the paper back. Aziraphale ignores it and the corners of his mouth turn down ever so slightly into the pout Crowley has been looking forward to. “Oh, come now, angel, don’t make that face. Creature wrote it, not me.”

“Creature can’t write,” Aziraphale asserts with a touch of exasperation. Crowley sits up in mock indignation.

“Aziraphale, how terribly small minded of you. Creature can do a great many things. She’s a modern woman, after all.”

“Crowley, stop being mean to Aziraphale,” Anathema interrupts, “Aziraphale, stop playing into it. I haven’t had breakfast yet and I can’t decide what I want with you two banging on.”

Aziraphale snatches the note back with a sniff and Crowley sits back and smirks. Anathema takes forever to choose what she wants and insists on asking Newt a million questions. Aziraphale pretends Crowley doesn’t exist for as long as possible. Which isn’t long at all, it turns out. He keeps catching glimpses of Crowley’s insufferable face and has to fight down a smile.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says.

“Yes, Aziraphale?” Crowley says.

“Have you ever tried zucchini noodles? Or, as people like to say, zoodles?”

Crowley has, in fact, tried zucchini noodles but refuses to refer to them as zoodles. They have a rather in depth discussion about how Crowley should incorporate them into this next cooking attempt and Crowley serves him a selection of biscuits and scones. He tries to make Aziraphale a coffee, but Newt steps in and takes over. Crowley, according to Newt, doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. Crowley, according to Crowley, thinks this is ridiculous.

Anathema drags Aziraphale away to look at the other booths and Crowley’s day becomes considerably more boring. The lunch bell rings and they’re suddenly overrun with children. Adam and the Them make an appearance, of course. The lot of them talk a mile a minute and end up sampling a bit of everything before moving on to torment some other booth.

The day ends, eventually, and Crowley helps Newt pack the equipment and few leftovers back into his car. The sun is setting earlier every day, but they still have a couple hours of daylight left. Crowley feels unaccountably tired, though, and wants nothing more than to flop down on his couch and scroll through Netflix.

* * *

It’s pissing down when Crowley kicks open the door to the bookshop. The wind yanks at Crowley’s leather jacket and pushes some errant leaves in behind him. Crowley has his body arched protectively over the shepherd’s pie he got from the pub and shoves his back against the door to shut it behind him. Aziraphale appears from one of the overfull shelves, a ledger perched in his hands and his reading glasses as far down on his nose as possible before they fall off.

“Don’t kick my things, Crowley,” he scolds.

“I didn’t kick your things,” Crowley informs him as he runs a hand through his damp hair, “I kicked your door. I kinda kicked your door. I used my foot to open your door.”

Aziraphale closes his ledger with a snap and fixes Crowley with a Look. Aziraphale has many Looks. He has his ‘I’m feeling peckish but I would rather die than say so’ Look and his ‘I’m pretending not to be amused by your antics’ Look and his ‘you’ve just done something kind but I know neither one of us wants to acknowledge it’ Look and his ‘you’ve just done something annoying and I’m not interested in ignoring it, per se, but you could persuade me to look past it’ Look amongst many, many others that Crowley is just beginning to decipher. Crowley decides this Look isn’t one of the more serious ones and so offers up the tin foil wrapped shepherd’s pie with a cheeky grin. Aziraphale tucks his ledger underneath his arm and ignores it entirely.

“You’re soaked through, my dear,” he tuts.

“What, afraid I’m gonna drip on your books?”

“Hardly, though you better not.”

Aziraphale takes the pie out of Crowley’s hands and sets it on the counter by the till. He ushers Crowley into the backroom[53] and bullies him onto the sofa. He deigns to allow Crowley to wrap up in a faded red throw with firm instructions not to drip on anything important and disappears back into the shop. He returns with the shepherd’s pie and two plastic wrapped takeaway forks and settles everything on the coffee table. He switches on the electric kettle in the corner of the room before settling in on the opposite end of the couch.

Aziraphale is in a fine mood. The horrid weather means that he hasn’t had any customers so he’s just been puttering around the stacks and pretending like he’s working. Aziraphale loves this sort of dreary weather. Crowley figures the man finds it a bit romantic. A ready-made excuse for cuddling up and kisses in the rain.[54] It’s perfect for him and his sweaters and his cocoa and his books. It usually just makes Crowley tetchy.

They don’t bother with plates, they just pick away at it while Aziraphale holds the cheap tin container in his free hand. Aziraphale is making those little sounds of contentment with each bite and Crowley is soaking them all in while he pats himself on the back. He knew that the shepherd’s pie was a good choice for today. Crowley is just starting to hit his stride in a rant about potpourri when Aziraphale’s phone rings. They both shoot the phone a dirty look, but Aziraphale sighs and hands the pie to Crowley.

Aziraphale goes back into the main shop where the ancient landline sits beside the till. Crowley does try his best not to listen in, even though he’s sure it’s just someone asking after a book, but Aziraphale’s voice manages to carry over the steady drum of the rain.

“A.Z. Fell and-” a pause here, “oh, hello, Gabriel, how are-”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Clearly this Gabriel person is rather rude to interrupt Aziraphale not once but twice. Aziraphale is silent for a time and Crowley picks at the layer of mashed potatoes with his fork. Aziraphale manages to get a word in edgewise, sorta.

“Yes, I know the date is coming up, but-” another pause, “I’m quite busy, unfortunately. I won’t be able to make it.”

Aziraphale apparently listens for a bit and then makes another slew of apologies. It seems to take forever for him to ring off. Aziraphale takes a long moment after hanging up the phone before he returns to the backroom. He’s wearing a pleasant smile but Crowley can see it’s tight at the corners. Aziraphale takes his seat on the couch but doesn’t take the offered tin. Crowley picks at it a bit more while the silence stretches on before he sets it down on the table.

“Who’s Gabriel?” Crowley asks as he leans back and sprawls out.

“He’s my brother,” he says. “Older,” he adds, like it makes a difference.

“Didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I have two, actually.” Crowley raises his eyebrows. Interesting.

“Well, what did he want?”

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment and darts a quick glance at Crowley.

“The anniversary of my father’s death is coming up. Every year Gabriel insists on releasing these paper lanterns, something he found on Pinterest or some such.”

“And you’re not going?”

The question hangs. Aziraphale twists the ring on his pinky. The rain berates the window panes. Crowley is unusually patient.

“I didn’t get along much with my father. Or my mother, really. Being around my brothers exhausts me. I know that’s awful. They’re my family and I should love them. It’s just,” his words fail him.

“Just because someone’s family doesn’t mean they deserve a place in your life,” Crowley tells him gently. Crowley knows what it’s like to have to cut family members out of his life. He also knows that can be a hard thing to accept. Aziraphale gives him a wan smile.

“Thank you, my dear, but it’s fine. They mean well,” Aziraphale says and nods his head once like he’s agreeing with himself. Crowley recognizes a sore subject when he sees one and lets it drop. Crowley watches him twist his ring a few more times before he bends forward to pick the pie back up.

“You hardly ate anything at all, angel. C’mon, you can’t expect me to finish this by myself, can you?”

It takes a little more gentle teasing before Aziraphale picks his fork back up and gives Crowley a genuine smile, but Crowley would’ve happily sat there for the rest of the day trying.

### Footnotes

49. Crowley has yet to discover the joys of having to rake leaves, but let’s not ruin the fun for him just yet.return to text

50. Just don’t tell Aziraphale that.return to text

51. Crowley is being generous here by calling it a car. He supposes it might function like a car does, but the thing has three wheels and its soul speaks out to Crowley and asks for a swift, fiery death.return to text

52. Crowley thinks that Aziraphale would never let him live it down if he died in such a ramshackle vehicle. He just knows that blonde menace would have Tracy fire up the ol’ ouija board just to gloat about it.return to text

53. When Crowley had first encountered the concept of The Backroom of Aziraphale’s Bookshop he had foolishly thought that there would be a marked difference between it and the rest of the shop. The backroom, in actuality, is more messy than the shop itself. Shocking, he knows, but it’s true. The dust abates some and there’s a ridiculously comfortable old sofa, but it’s crammed full of books and weird knick knacks. Crowley quite likes the various oddities adorning the walls and shelves, but he could do without sitting on old tomes when he’s least expecting it.return to text

54. Not that Crowley’s thinking of _kissing_ , of all things.return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was a tree in front of my first apartment that turned a beautiful, dark shade of red in the fall and even though I had no clue what type it was I was totally in love with it. I have now given that tree to Crowley and I'm sure he'll treat it well.
> 
> this was a bit of a long break. classes started again and that's been a bit of an adjustment. I've been short on spoons as of late so I'm sorry to say updates may be a little sporadic rather than the weekly schedule I started out with.
> 
> I'm eternally grateful for the positive response to this fic and I'm woefully behind on responding to comments but I read every single one and they fill my heart to the brim
> 
> come chat with me on [tumblr](https://ivory-line.tumblr.com) and here's the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2jw4jhwtD5ZoiS7ljoPSsZ?si=anre3mrfSQWA-LDiSMgB7Q)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Crowley hosts the pub quiz, the boys take a trip to London, and Crowley has a realization

Crowley takes to venturing past the crumbled plastic lattice into the field of yellow grass. The weather turns bitter, but Crowley goes out there in the late afternoon when everything is golden and he tracks the path of the wind through the ochre strands. He takes deep breaths of the salty air and lets the decaying ends caress his hands.

He starts to go out there at night, too. The great expanse of stars blends in with the space where the sea meets the horizon. He turns off his porch light and leaves his sunglasses sitting on the kitchen counter. Creature sits at the firmly shut French door and watches Crowley make his way out to the crest of the hill. It’s quiet out there. He can hear the rustling of the grass and the crash of waves against an empty shore. Sometimes he can hear Aziraphale clattering around in his kitchen. Other times Aziraphale notices Crowley out there amongst the sea of golden stalks and starshine and ventures out himself. He’ll hand Crowley a cup of tea[55] and stand there silently at his side, simply observing the darkness before them. On one memorable occasion, Aziraphale wraps a faded old throw around Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley makes sure to wrap himself up in it before he goes out for his nightly vigils.

Crowley goes out to the beach at night every now and again. He’s often alone on the sand, but a few times he sees Anathema out there with a strange sort of pendulum and muttering to herself. They never interrupt each other, though the awareness is there. He walks out to the old pier with the throw wrapped around him and listens to the pull of the tide.

He goes to the beach in the daytime too, of course. Despite the vicious wind the locals take advantage of the lack of tourists. Sometimes Adam and the Them are out there, often armed with driftwood, and Adam will ask when Warlock is coming to visit next. Usually, he’s free to inspect the shells and the grains of sand embedded in his inappropriate footwear. He takes Aziraphale with him on some of his jaunts and is pleased when Aziraphale brings out small canvases he stretched himself and his case of watercolors. Sometimes he paints the scenery and others he paints a hazy landscape of colors Crowley can’t quite make sense of.

One Wednesday night when Crowley walks into the pub with Aziraphale standing close enough that their shoulders brush there’s more activity than usual. Madame Tracy swoops in to grip Crowley’s elbow and it’s clear she’s had a few pints already.

“There you are, love. Poor Leslie is out sick,” she tells him with an extra pat on his elbow. Aziraphale looks bereft now that Tracy has taken his spot.

“Oh, well that’s too bad?” Crowley says. Tracy titters as she drags him through the tables.

“Isn’t it just? We need a host and you’ve got such a way about you,” Tracy says as she picks up a microphone, switches it on, and presses it into Crowley’s hand. Dagon shoves a stack of notecards into Crowley’s other hand with a scowl before retreating behind the bar. Crowley looks for Aziraphale and sees he’s taken a seat next to Anathema and is grinning at him in a way that makes Crowley feel like he’s just won a BAFTA. Anathema is giving him a thumbs up and the rest of the participants are smiling politely at him so Crowley figures what the hell.

Crowley makes an absolute arse of himself playing host. He reads the cards the best he can in the dim light behind his lenses and awards extra points to the wrong answers that make him laugh. Aziraphale is truly terrible at the pop culture questions and Crowley is delighted. Anathema has one too many drinks and is adamantly sure that Aziraphale is correct. Unfortunately for them both, Crowley knows with the help of the cards that it was Hugh Grant that played opposite Drew Barrymore in the romantic comedy Music and Lyrics, not whatever it is that Aziraphale is so sure about.[56]

Anathema’s team still comes in dead last. Crowley understands why now with a clarity gifted only to the sober. At the end of the night Crowley bundles Aziraphale into the Bentley and is treated to a very spirited rendition of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.[57]

* * *

November is a wet, miserable hell. The only good thing about it, Crowley thinks, is that it’s nearly halfway over with. He doesn’t allow Aziraphale to bike to the bookshop anymore. He might be a bit of a prick, but it doesn’t sit right with him to let Aziraphale get all damp and cold. Crowley wears a blanket like a shawl and complains the entire time, but now he drives Aziraphale to the shop each morning.

Christmas is approaching which means Crowley needs to take a trip to Londond in search of gifts. He used to only need to get gifts for Beez and Warlock, but he’s got _friends_ now. Unfortunately, Crowley quite likes these friends of his. That means he’s already begun to consider what gifts to get them.

The thought of going to London makes Crowley’s skin crawl. He hasn’t been back since he moved to Devil’s Dyke. He thinks about the sheer number of people and the crowded buildings and the noise and he feels like he needs a bit of a lie down. Luckily, he’s roped another poor soul into going with him.

That poor soul is currently standing on Crowley’s porch with a tartan umbrella and pursing his lips at Crowley.

“Crowley, you are going to catch your death in that,” Aziraphale admonishes. Crowley scoffs as he locks his front door.

“I’m wearing a jacket. Relax, won’t you?”

“It looks rather thin, is all. Aren’t you going to bring an umbrella?” Aziraphale pesters as he trails after Crowley.

“What do I need an umbrella for?” Crowley smirks at Aziraphale over the top of the Bentley as he sputters.

“Honestly, Crowley. You are horrid.”

“Just get in, Angel.”

The drive up to London is quite fun in Crowley’s opinion. Aziraphale spends it white as a sheet and smacks Crowley on the arm at least a dozen times. He perks up a bit once they leave the Bentley in a carpark. He straightens his waistcoat with a huff and tucks his umbrella under his arm. Crowley gives him his best grin.

“I have never driven a vehicle in my life, but I am certain that’s now how you’re supposed to do it,” Aziraphale informs him as they match paces and strike out into the London streets.

“Eh,” Crowley says with a shrug, “well, where to first?” Aziraphale hums as they amble along at a pace that surely irritates everyone around them. Crowley sticks his hands in his pockets and tries to avoid brushing against anyone.

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale says after a moment.

“Who all are you shopping for? Maybe that’ll give us some direction.”

“Well, Anathema and Tracy, of course. There’s Newt,” Aziraphale begins and Crowley nods along. They’re also on his list. “Oh, and my ex-wife.”

Aziraphale doesn’t realize right away that Crowley is no longer walking beside him. Crowley feels like maybe he’s gone deaf. He certainly doesn’t hear Aziraphale’s exasperated sigh when he turns back to see Crowley standing stock still in the middle of the sidewalk. Aziraphale comes back and loops his arm through Crowley’s to tug him along.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says, “did you say ex-wife?”

Aziraphale laughs, like it’s funny. Crowley is more confused than he’s ever been and Aziraphale is laughing.

“Yes, her name is Michael. I think you’d quite like her,” Aziraphale tells him cheerfully. Crowley, who had been very sure about certain aspects of Aziraphale, is desperately trying to make two plus two equal four.

“I suppose I never imagined you to be the sort who had a wife,” Crowley says slowly, choosing his words carefully. Aziraphale looks over at him and laughs again.

“I’m not. Let’s grab a bite for lunch and I’ll tell you the story,” Aziraphale offers, still smiling. Crowley allows himself to be led into a posh little sushi restaurant. He watches Aziraphale do his wiggle of delight he doesn’t seem to be aware of and Crowley doesn’t even blink when he speaks perfect Japanese while ordering for the both of them. Crowley sips on his water and patiently waits for Aziraphale to tell him how, exactly, he came to have an ex-wife.

“First of all,” Aziraphale says after pouring himself a measure of saki, “you aren’t allowed to interrupt me.”

“I never interrupt you,” Crowley interrupts.

“I know you, Crowley. You’re made entirely of questions. Just let me tell you and then you can ask me what you want when I’m done.” Aziraphale looks expectantly at Crowley. Crowley sighs deeply and leans back to sprawl in his chair. He waves a hand at Aziraphale to signify his assent.

“Michael and I have been friends since childhood. I was a shy child and Michael always stood up for me. She’s always had this self-assured way about her. She was an only child and her family was very traditional. Her parents doted on her, but they made it very clear they expected certain things from her. We went off to university together,” Aziraphale pauses to take a drink, “She went into law and she was brilliant, she still is. She can talk circles around anyone. Her parents told her she would receive her inheritance once she got married. Married, of course, to a nice young man. The only problem with this was that Michael is a lesbian. Her family had no idea, and they wouldn’t take it very well if they did. I found myself in a similar position, though my parents were well aware of what they called my ‘little indiscretions’. The nest egg my uncle left to me was out of my reach until I settled down with a wife.”

Crowley is riveted. Aziraphale pours himself another measure of saki and takes a sip before meeting Crowley’s gaze again.

“We graduated from university and we were suddenly faced with the big question. What now? Michael and I went down to the pub that all the students hung around, figuring that a pint might give us some inspiration. Michael had some prospects lined up, but London is expensive. I only ever wanted one thing and that was to own my own little bookshop. Somewhere quiet, somewhere I could finally do as I pleased without the shadow of expectation hanging over me. So, Michael and I decided to get married. Oh, Crowley I wish you could’ve seen my family’s faces when I announced the engagement,” Aziraphale is outright grinning now, his whole being lit up from the inside,” It was a beautiful wedding, of course. Whatever stereotypes there are, gay people know how to put on a wedding. We collected our inheritances and stayed married for a few years. Then, Michael met the most wonderful woman, Uriel, and we divorced. Michael and Uriel just celebrated ten years of marriage.”

Crowley, for the first time in his life, is speechless. He can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry. The waitress deposits their food in front of them and Aziraphale’s grin moves from Crowley down to the assortment of rolls on his plate. Aziraphale picks up his chopsticks and waves them over his plate as if unsure where he wants to start. Crowley unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and leans forward.

“Aziraphale,” he says urgently.

“Yes, Crowley?” Aziraphale says. He chooses a spicy tuna roll and pops it in his mouth. He moans quietly around his mouthful and it’s a testament to how dire Crowley finds the situation that he ignores it entirely.

“I know I’ve said this before, but I mean it. Deep down you’re a bit of a bastard. I think it might be your best quality,” Crowley tells him. He’s leaning so far over the table he’s at risk of wearing his lunch, but this is important. Crowley likes a lot of things about Aziraphale[58] but he thinks the thing he likes the most is that underneath all the manners and the fussiness is this little piece of bastardy that’s impossible to smother. It’s like the man is made of clouds, or cotton candy, or silk, or whatever soft thing people would love to run their hands through, but underneath that is the sharp truth of him. The dichotomy fascinates Crowley.

“Yes,” Aziraphale smiles at his lap, “you’ve told me that a time or two before. Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley finally picks up his chopsticks and the pair of them are quiet as they work their way through their meals. Aziraphale switches to water after two little ceramic cups of saki.

“Are you and Michael still close?” Crowley asks once he’s had his fill and set his chopsticks down.

“Oh, yes. Her and Uriel are both barristers so they’re quite busy, but she always has time for a phone call from me,” Aziraphale answers.

“How did her family react? Y’know, after?”

“Michael could not have cared less. She’s got a backbone of steel. They either got with the program or she’d see them at their funeral,” Aziraphale says with a fond chuckle.

“And your family?” Here, Aziraphale hesitates.

“Well,” he says and pushes a piece of ginger around his plate, “my father passed before our divorce, but my mother only mentioned it once. She asked whatever happened between us and I told her it just didn’t work out. She never brought it up again. My brothers, however, figured it out pretty quickly. It’s something we don’t discuss very often.”

Now his angel is frowning and that just won’t do.

“Well, I, for one, think that’s brilliant. And you’ve got the bookshop!” Crowley encourages. Aziraphale’s gaze flicks up to him and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I’m not sure if you remember, but you insulted the bookshop the first time you were in there.”

“Oi, I didn’t insult it. That was simply an observation. I spend plenty of time in there. It’s cozy,” Crowley asserts, “It’s quiet and you let me be rude to strangers. I like it.”

“Well, then,” Aziraphale says nearly under his breath then speaks at a normal volume, “I like you being in the shop.” Crowley freezes and Aziraphale is quick to continue. “Your lurking in the shelves is off-putting and that’s exactly the atmosphere I’m going for.” Crowley swallows down what suspiciously feels like disappointment.

“Right, yeah. Off-putting, that’s me.”

Crowley insists on paying the bill. They go back out into the crowded sidewalk and return to their ambling pace. They decide to go to Harrod’s first. There’s an obscene amount of people in this department store, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to care a whit.

Crowley politely holds all of Aziraphale’s purchases for him. His arms are full when he scoffs and corrals Aziraphale away from the sale’s associate he’s questioning about cookbooks. If there’s something Dierdre doesn’t need, it’s cookbooks.

They make a few more stops before going by the Bentley to deposit their bags. They manage to check off most of their lists, thankfully. Once their purchases are settled there’s a bit of a hesitant pause. Aziraphale spins his ring a few times and Crowley peers up at the sky.

“So-”

“I-”

“No, you go first.”

“I have a small errand to run, you wouldn’t be interested at all,” Aziraphale says in a rush, “let’s just meet back here before dinner?”

“Yeah, of course, “Crowley responds in relief. “Meet back here in, let’s say, an hour and a half?”

With that settled Crowley is finally free to look for Aziraphale’s gift. A book is right out. If Aziraphale doesn’t have it he’s more than capable of not only acquiring it, he can get a first edition. He considers for a moment getting the man a new pair of trainers to replace those old wretched ones, but decides against it. Gifts are supposed to be nice and he has a feeling that Aziraphale would not find that very nice.

Crowley figures that he’ll know what to get him when he sees it, so he pulls his phone out of his back pocket and looks up directions to the nearest antique shop. If there’s anything Crowley knows that fussy, old fashioned man likes it’s a good antique.

The first antique shop is a total bust. There was a hideous dog shaped umbrella stand that had some promise, but it turned out to weigh roughly the same amount as the sun so Crowley vetoed it. In the second antique shop Crowley finds a black silk dressing gown from the 1950s with lacy cuffs and adorned with hibiscus flowers, but nothing that he thinks Aziraphale would like. He purchases the dressing gown for himself with a frown and moves on to the next shop.

The third shop is a cluttered, dingy mess with poor lighting. It’s dusty and smells vaguely moldy. It reminds Crowley very strongly of the bookshop. He picks his way through the mess and lingers for a while over an old gas lamp before discarding it. He also considers a set of silver spoons[59] but decides it’s not quite right. He stumbles upon a crumpled cardboard box full of jewelry, buttons, and pins and starts to dig through it half-heartedly.

He finds a navy blue cufflink with a little anchor on it and thinks yes, that’s the ticket. Cufflinks are the answer, but not the anchor ones. He tosses it to the side and starts digging with a purpose. He finds a round cufflink that catches his attention so he pulls it out and holds it up to the dim lighting. It has two white swans with dark greenery in the background. Crowley smiles. Aziraphale and swans are quite similar, Crowley thinks. All pale, beautiful grace on the surface but more than willing to make your life a living hell for a lark.

Crowley grasps the cufflink in one hand and rummages through the box for the matching cufflink with the other. His heart sinks when he can’t immediately find the counterpart. He can’t very well give Aziraphale just one cufflink. He gives the box a good shake, hoping to reposition what’s on the bottom nearer to the top. It takes a couple more minutes of scrounging but he locates the other cufflink. He grins in triumph and marches his selection up to the teller.

The elderly woman at the till must see on his face that he very much wants the cufflinks because she attempts to price gouge him. Crowley, having known Aziraphale for the better part of a year, is familiar with this tactic. He attempts to haggle then gives up and turns on the charm instead. With a little schmoozing and just a touch of flirting he’s able to pay a very reasonable price for the cufflinks.

As Crowley leaves the shop he wonders if anyone’s tried the flirty angle on Aziraphale. That thought makes his skin itch so he pushes it out of his mind. He wants to get Aziraphale something kitschy and typical for Christmas as well since that’s part of the fun so he wanders until he finds a shop front that’s gone over the top on Christmas decorations. He ducks inside and picks out a biscuit jar shaped like a polar bear wearing a blue scarf.

The sun has set and it’s beginning to drizzle when Crowley makes his way back to the Bentley to meet Aziraphale. Crowley has begun to feel a bit run down dealing with the crowds without Aziraphale’s bright and easy presence at his side, and not to mention cold, so he hurries back to the carpark.

Aziraphale is already waiting for him and Crowley sees him before he sees Crowley. He’s standing politely beside the passenger door with a grey shopping bag hanging from the crook of his right arm. The streetlights are bathing him in yellow light and his hair is curling more than ever in the light rain. He appears to be watching two pigeons share a half eaten hamburger.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley says as he sidles up to Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says warmly and turns to smile up at Crowley. “I trust you didn’t get up to too much trouble without me.”

“I got into the appropriate amount of trouble, thank you very much. Got all your errands done?” Crowley unlocks the car and sets his bags down in the backseat. He tries to take Aziraphale’s to do the same, but he hurries to set it down himself.

“Oh, yes,” he answers and pauses while they get in the car. Crowley is quick to turn the car on and crank up the heat. “Where would you like to go to dinner, my dear?”

“You pick, I’m hungry for anything.”

Aziraphale directs him out to Soho to a bistro that serves crepes that are, apparently, to die for. Parking is a nightmare because why wouldn’t it be. Aziraphale is chattering away about the last time he had dined at the bistro and Crowley can’t find it in him to be annoyed that they’ll have a bit of a walk to the restaurant. Once he’s parked Crowley insists on sticking his hands against the vents for a little while in preparation for exiting the car.[60]

“Looks like you were right about the umbrella,” Crowley says, “d’you think we can both fit under that thing?” Crowley glances to the floorboard at Aziraphale’s feet and doesn’t see it so he twists around to look in the backseat.

“Ah,” Aziraphale offers and then falls silent.

“Wait, where did it go? I know you had it earlier, I thought you were going to crack me over the head with it when I offered to knick that apple,”[61] Crowley says. He turns back around to peer shrewdly at Aziraphale. “Did you lose it? I can’t believe this. After all that whinging you did you’ve gone and lost your umbrella.”

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale bursts out. He meets Crowley’s eyes, wearing an expression that says he’s daring Crowley to do his worst.

“You what?” Crowley says stupidly. He feels pinned by that muddy blue gaze.

“I gave it away,” he repeats. “It had just started raining and I was waiting at a crosswalk next to this young couple. She was expecting and neither one of them were dressed for the weather so I gave them my umbrella. I said ‘here you go, don’t thank me just hurry on home now’.”

Aziraphale is looking Crowley dead in the eye and he can’t look away even if he wanted to. The neon signs along the street paint Aziraphale in reds and blues and yellows. Crowley can hear the vague sounds of laughter and conversation out on the sidewalk over the sound of the heater. The space between the two of them suddenly seems simultaneously too much and too little.

Neurons that he thought had burned out long ago come to life and start firing too quickly for him to stop. He can feel his atoms rearranging and his fingertips tingle with the sensation. Trapped between his stuttering pulse and Aziraphale’s electric visage, Crowley realizes he has fallen in love.

### Footnotes

55. Usually chamomile, lavender, or mint. Always caffeine free and perfectly suited to Crowley’s mood.return to text

56. Aziraphale is adamant that it’s “some British bloke what looks like a prat”. It’s not that he’s wrong, necessarily. Crowley awards him a point, anyway.return to text

57. The radio situation in the Bentley often causes arguments between them, but the 80s throwback station is usually a safe middle ground. Aziraphale singing what are absolutely _not_ the correct lyrics should be making Crowley consider issuing a moratorium on pop music, but it’s just so hopelessly endearing.return to text

58. Shut up. Crowley likes Aziraphale, okay? How could he not?return to text

59. Aziraphale seems the sort to collect silver spoons. He doesn’t, but he seems the sort.return to text

60. He looks at Aziraphale in all his many layers and is, for the first time, envious.return to text

61. They had passed a grocers at one point and bickered briefly over the merits of displaying the fruits on the sidewalk. Aziraphale thought it was inviting to which Crowley replied “Yeah, inviting thievery” and offered to prove the point. Aziraphale did not approve.return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps roof of chapter* this baby can fit _so_ many canon references in it. i have been so excited for this chapter! it's been living in my head for a while now and i'm glad i'm finally able to release it into the wild.
> 
> i spent a considerable amount of time digging around in various antique shops in London's digital catalogues for ideas for Aziraphale's gift, which was fun but i ended up finding [aziraphale's cufflinks](https://www.etsy.com/listing/582534250/art-nouveau-cufflinks-swan-cufflinks?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=vintage+cufflinks&ref=sr_gallery-1-19&organic_search_click=1&frs=1) on etsy. i also found a pair for [crowley](https://www.etsy.com/listing/582534250/art-nouveau-cufflinks-swan-cufflinks?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=vintage+cufflinks&ref=sr_gallery-1-19&organic_search_click=1&frs=1)
> 
> gosh, this is getting long. when i originally planned this fic out i thought it would end up around the 45-50k range and now i'm side-eyeing how many words it took to get to the point where crowley is at least aware he has feelings for his neighbor. we're definitely going to overshoot that estimate, but that's okay. i'm having fun
> 
> come chat with me on [tumblr](ivory-line.tumblr.com) or check out the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2jw4jhwtD5ZoiS7ljoPSsZ?si=MzZpphb7SRiJQCLGZo2gfg)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Crowley launches an investigation, confides in Anathema, and throws a Christmas party

Crowley is not in love with Aziraphale. He’s just not. Crowley’s not in love with Aziraphale because that would be ridiculous. He might have a crush. Yeah, that sounds right. Crowley has a small crush on his friend. It’s super normal, happens all the time.

Crowley decides to investigate this so-called crush. Developing feelings for a person who is funny and clever and _pretty_ isn’t strange, it’s just something he doesn’t do. It’s actually at the very bottom of the list of things Crowley wants to do. He has made it very clear to both himself and the universe at large that he is totally disinterested in experiencing feelings. Obviously, something weird must be afoot. This, of course, requires Crowley’s full attention.

He begins his investigation with the simple art of observation. He lurks in the shelves at the bookshop, but instead of poking around at the books he watches Aziraphale. He watches Aziraphale pretend to do inventory with those little glasses perched on his nose. He watches Aziraphale mark up the price on a book right in front of a customer. He watches Aziraphale settle into the armchair in the back room with a book and catalogues the little crease between his eyebrows as he reads. He tries to remember that the bookshop is a chaotic health hazard that goes against his natural instinct to organize.

He watches Aziraphale at pub quiz night. Aziraphale insists on taking a sip out of Crowley’s glass and giving him a judgemental look over the rim. He argues with Crowley over one of the questions and cheers on Anathema’s team. Aziraphale even gets Dagon to grace him with an almost smile. The lamp over their table might still have a bulb in it from 1972 for all the light it gives off and yet Aziraphale’s smile nearly blinds him. He takes mental notes of it all.

Crowley watches Aziraphale putter around Crowley’s home. He watches Creature curl up in his lap and he watches as one hand smoothes down her fur and the other grips a mug of cocoa. Aziraphale tuts at his unfinished kitchen and knows where everything is. He watches Aziraphale stand around the kitchen island with the afternoon sun coming through the French doors as he taste tests whatever Crowley’s cooking. He watches Aziraphale as Aziraphale watches Casablanca, his legs crossed politely at the ankle and a dreamy expression on his face.

Crowley is standing in the field behind their houses. It’s late and he has the throw draped around him. Aziraphale’s lights are still on so he gives his vigil up earlier than usual. He unlatches the gate to Aziraphale’s yard and ghosts up to the back porch. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, but he knows it’s for the sake of his investigation. He peers through the sliding glass door and raises his hand to knock. Aziraphale comes around the corner into the kitchen before he gets the chance and he doesn’t even look particularly surprised to see Crowley lurking in the dark.[62] The blonde rolls his eyes and Crowley imagines he can hear the man huff.

Aziraphale lets him in with a pointed reminder that he possesses a front door. He pushes Crowley into a seat at the dining table and sets to making them both a cup of tea. Crowley watches him putter around opening cabinets and listens to Aziraphale complain about a problem with the taps in his bathroom. Crowley offers to take a look, see what he can do. He’s gotten rather good at home repairs.

Aziraphale is a clever man. He’s observant to an unfortunate extent and he’s sharply intelligent. Crowley knows that Aziraphale is aware he’s the subject of some sort of study. He’s not being particularly subtle about it and Aziraphale tells him as much. At first he accuses Crowley of giving him the creeps, which Crowley finds he quite likes for reasons he can’t possibly begin to divine. Now he just meets Crowley’s eyes[63] and the two engage in some sort of unspoken staring contest that lasts until one of them, usually Aziraphale, makes a rude comment that makes the other laugh.

All that watching and Crowley has learned exactly fuck all. Something cursed happens to his insides when he lays in bed at night and goes over the day’s findings. Something even worse happens whenever Aziraphale casually touches him. It’s usually on the back of his hand or his arm, but on one memorable occasion Aziraphale puts his hand on the small of Crowley’s back while leading him into the cafe. Crowley feels like he might evaporate.

He decides it’s time to bring Anathema into the investigation. She’s good at deciphering people and Crowley half hopes this is all the result of some witchy scheme of hers. Crowley broaches the subject during one of their Netflix binge sessions.

“Hey,” he says in between episodes of She-Ra, “I’m going to the kitchen, do you want anything? Oh, while I’m at it do I have a crush on Aziraphale?”

Anathema turns to face him, her eyebrows creased in confusion. She must see something in his expression because she snatches up the little black remote and pauses the show.

“Wine. We’re gonna need wine.”

Crowley all but leaps off the couch to comply. He’s got a big bottle of something cheap and sweet he got on sale at the grocer’s in the fridge and he grabs that and two glasses. He flops back down on the couch and twists the top off the wine. He definitely pours them each far more than one serving’s worth. She takes her glass and settles in against the arm of the couch. She has her feet tucked up under her and she fusses with the blanket on her lap. When she’s satisfactorily comfortable she takes a sip of wine and looks eagerly at Crowley.

“What?” he says as he takes his glass and slouches down in his seat.

“What do you mean ‘what’? Do you have a crush on Aziraphale?”

“I asked _you_ that. How would _I_ know?”

“Oh, boy,” she says around a sigh. She takes another drink and gestures for Crowley to do the same. “Alright, what makes you ask that?”

“Well, I’ve been watching him lately-”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a little weird. You’re like a hypervigilant hawk, or, like, a moon or something.”

Crowley narrows his eyes at her and she raises a hand in appeasement.

“Anyway, I’ve been watching him lately. I used to hate him, remember that? ‘Cause I do. I really did not like him. He’s such a bastard, Anathema,” Crowley sighs into his wine glass.

“What happened?”

“That fucking umbrella happened, that’s what. And so now I’ve been taking notes and trying to extrapolate some answers from the data,” he points at her with his glass before taking a drink, “that’s where you come in. Let you try to figure this out.”

“Okay,” Anathema says, sitting up straighter, “give me the facts.”

“First of all, he’s handsome. Objectively. I mean, you’ve seen him. His hair looks so soft. Is it soft? Do you know? Wait, don’t tell me. I want to find out for myself. And his eyes get all crinkley when he smiles.” Crowley swirls his wine morosely.

“I’ve seen him,” she agrees. “He is cute. He’s got that whole vintage thing going on.”

“He’s not cute, Anathema. Well, maybe a little. Like when he does that little wiggle or waves at the ducks. Why does he wave at animals? I don’t think they know what it means. Creature likes it when he does it, but I think she just likes Aziraphale in general.”

The cat in question meows from her hiding place under the couch in response to her name. Crowley spends a moment thinking about Aziraphale waving at animals then drains his glass. Anathema waits patiently for him to pour a refill and continue.

“He’s smart, too. Usually is, anyway. And I think he might be nice? He rescued my keys once, you know.”

Anathema doesn’t know so he tells her. He tells her about his hideous shoes and the ridiculous little glasses. He tells her about watching him paint and the way his hands hold the brushes. He tells her about the plant and the tea and the failed magic trick.

Half the bottle is gone by the time Crowley finishes presenting his thesis on Aziraphale. Anathema has stretched out and tucked her feet under Crowley’s thigh. Crowley’s head is tipped back and his eyes are close.

“So, what’s the verdict, ‘Nathema?” He considers sitting up and refilling his glass, but he’s far too comfortable. Anathema hums in thought, but doesn’t answer. She’s quiet for so long that Crowley almost forgets that he’s asked her a question and then she starts laughing. Crowley turns his head and opens his eyes to glare at her.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says and starts laughing even harder when she sees the look on Crowley’s face.

“Go ahead and laugh at me. That’s real nice,” he grumbles without any heat. Anathema manages to stifle her giggles long enough to finish off her glass.

“You should just go tell him,” she says, “I’m sure he’s home, you could do it now.” She starts to get up and Crowley nearly crashes to the ground in his haste to stand up and stop her.

“Are you insane? Absolutely not. For fuck’s sake, Anathema, what is wrong with you?” Crowley demands. Crowley can just see it now. The pair of them show up on Aziraphale’s doorstep smelling like a distillery and Crowley announces that he’d quite like to kiss Aziraphale. What a great plan. Aziraphale would probably attack him. Or call Shadwell again.

“Alright, alright, relax,” she tells him, one hand held up in apology. Crowley pours himself another glass and settles back down. He purposefully doesn’t offer any to Anathema as punishment.

“We’re friends,” he tells her firmly, feeling more sober than he had a moment ago, “and that’s fine. Everything is fine as it is now.”

Crowley likes the way things currently are. He doesn’t need to go fucking anything up by admitting to any feelings that may or may not be there. Anathema doesn’t look as convinced, but she lets Crowley change the subject.

* * *

Crowley decides that he’s going to throw a Christmas Eve party. Netflix had recently added their Christmas movie selection which is what had given him the idea. Crowley hasn’t hosted any sort of party since he was much, much younger, but something about those movies just got to him.[64] He mentioned wanting to host a party to Anathema and Aziraphale over tea at the cafe and they had laughed at him.

Crowley took that as a challenge and so now he’s locked into throwing this damn party. He owns exactly two Christmas related items: a satin Santa hat that he thought would make him look dashing but actually made him look like a Dickens character and a horrible sweater some random aunt had sent him years ago.[65] Crowley had to go all over the place to find a tree, the shit that goes on the tree, and festive decorations. He did all of this by himself because he didn’t want to give that terrible twosome the satisfaction.

It’s the day of the party and Crowley is very, very frazzled. He doesn’t like to use that word to describe himself, it feels like something a grandmother would say, but he’s frazzled. He spent hours on the tree alone. The star on top didn’t want to sit straight no matter what he did and the ornament distribution made him want to pull his hair out. Had to abandon the tree to decorate the rest of the house and to put the mini pecan pies in the oven.

At least Creature is enjoying herself. If she’s not climbing up the Christmas tree then she’s pulling the tinsel. Crowley has to chase her around the house several times to retrieve whatever little bauble she’s made off with.

Guests are set to arrive soon and everything is about how Crowley wants it to be. He wrestles a sweater onto Creature that says “Santa’s Favorite” and matches Crowley’s. She hides under the coffee table and looks murderous, but at least she isn’t systematically destroying things anymore. Crowley pushes play on the playlist he made for the occasion and goes back to fiddle with the tree some more.

The first person to arrive is Aziraphale because he’ll drop dead if he’s not punctual. He’s wearing a Christmas sweater with actual blinking lights and a bright red bowtie. He brought a bottle of wine with a neat bow wrapped around the neck of it and a large shopping bag full of wrapped gifts. He looks around with an expression that’s just a little too impressed for Crowley.

“It looks festive, Crowley. Very nice,” Aziraphale tells him with a benevolent smile. Crowley snatches the bottle from him with a scowl.

“Yeah, yeah. I told you I could do it, angel. Put your gifts under the tree, I’ll get us some punch,” Crowley says and makes for the kitchen.

“Punch?” Aziraphale questions. Crowley turns back to see him scrunching his nose and Crowley does not like him at all, not one bit.

“Yes, punch. I made it myself, found the recipe off Pinterest. You’re having one cup then you can switch to something else if you don’t like it.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, his expression clearing, “if you made it then I’ll try it.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and leaves to the kitchen. He’s ladling the green concoction he had made into plastic cups when Aziraphale calls out from the sitting room.[66]

“Crowley? Did you wrap these gifts yourself?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says as he re-enters the living room, “why?”

“That’s a very interesting technique, my dear. Very tape heavy.” He huffs when he sees the name on his cup but takes a sip all the same. He tries to turn a wince into a smile. Crowley tries his and yes, it’s terrible.

“Wow, that’s delicious,” Crowley says, smacking his lips, “don’t you think so?”

“Where’s Creature at, you wretched man? I want to say hello.”

He answers his own question when he spots her under the table. He crouches down and extends his hand toward her, but she grumbles and retreats further under the table.

“Sorry, she’s tetchy,” Crowley says with a shrug.

“She’s darling. Oh, Crowley, you have matching sweaters!”

Aziraphale is grinning at Crowley like he’s just discovered a new star system and Crowley doesn’t know what to do with it. Luckily, the door saves him from the need to respond.

Anathema bustles in with an armful of gift bags and Newt in tow. She’s wearing a floor length evergreen dress and Newt’s sweater has a burn mark over the chest. Crowley starts to ask about the burn mark but Aziraphale smacks him on the arm.

“It’s okay,” Newt tells him, “I tried to put in blinky lights like Aziraphale’s and they sort of exploded.”

“That was three years ago, by the way,” Anathema says as she arranges her bags under the tree. “He insists on wearing it.”

Tracy and Shadwell show up next. Crowley wasn’t too sure about letting Shadwell into his house, but Tracy had batter her fake eyelashes at him so he allowed it. Beez and Warlock arrive not long after. Aziraphale immediately pulls that damn coin out of his pocket and drops it before Crowley can beg him not to do his magic act. Creature shoots out from her hiding place to play with it and Aziraphale doesn’t have the heart to take it away from her.

Michael and Uriel are the last to arrive. Michael is tall and confident in her smart white pantsuit. Her blonde hair is perfectly coiffed and she’s wearing shimmery gold lipstick. Her wife is shorter and less severe looking but just as commanding in her suit.

Aziraphale is very eager to introduce Crowley to them. Crowley is somewhere between intimidated and quite keen. He desperately wants to sit down with someone who had grown up with Aziraphale and ask all sorts of embarrassing questions, but he also feels the strange need to make a good first impression. He shakes Michael’s hand first and her grip is very firm. She cracks a joke and Crowley could see why Aziraphale likes her so much. Uriel is more soft spoken but just as friendly.

Once everyone’s had the chance to grab some food and a drink Crowley decides it’s time for games. The ugly sweater competition is up first and Creature displays a shocking amount of patience as Crowley holds her up to show off her outfit. Newt wins by virtue of electrical mishap. They try to play a Christmas carol mad lib game Crowley had found on the Internet, but the punch and the wine seems to have severely shortened everyone’s attention spans.

Anathema and Aziraphale are squirrelled away in the kitchen, gossiping no doubt, so Crowley meanders over. Aziraphale is picking at a slice of quiche while Anathema pillages the baby carrots. Anathema nudges Aziraphale when she notices Crowley approaching.

“Isn’t Crowley’s tree nice, Aziraphale?” she says.

“Oh, yes. I love all the red,” he answers.

“Yeah, I like the red,” she replies, crunching idly on a carrot, “seems like something’s a bit off, though, doesn’t it?”

“Off?” Crowley says and shoots a glare at the tree in question.

“Now that you say something, yes I think you’re right.”

“Maybe it’s crooked?”

“Oh, definitely crooked.”

“Fuck,” Crowley groans, “I knew it. Why didn’t you say something sooner?” He starts to go back to the sitting room to either fix the stupid tree or set it on fire, he’ll see how he feels when he gets there. Aziraphale catches him by the arm before he can get too far and that’s when he notices they’re laughing.

“We’re only kidding, my dear. Your tree looks lovely,” Aziraphale assures him.

“Menaces, the both of you. I invite you into my beautiful home for some Christmas cheer and this is how you treat me. You should be ashamed,” Crowley says. Aziraphale hasn’t removed his hand from Crowley’s arm and it’s impossible to be mad about anything.

“Menace, that’s me. If you’ll excuse me, Newt has been eyeing your sound system all night and I better go get him before he knocks out the power grid,” Anathema tells them. She dumps the last of her carrots onto Aziraphale’s plate and strides off.

Crowley leans against the island and Aziraphale takes his hand back. Crowley would miss it, but they’re standing close enough that their shoulders are pressed together which Crowley thinks might be better. Aziraphale is like a space heater, warming up Crowley’s right side from shoulder to hip.

“You really have done a rather good job, Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. He’s watching Warlock mess about with his coin, presumably trying to figure out sleight of hand. Michael is sitting on the couch next to him trying to give pointers and Uriel is showing Beez something on her phone. Anathema and Newt are poking around Crowley’s CD Collection and Tracy is feeding Shadwell bites off her plate.

“Thanks,” Crowley replies, voice equally soft. His home is warm and smells like food and faintly like pine. Everything glitters and shines and Bing Crosby is quietly crooning in the background. Crowley has a cottage and friends and a cat he apparently puts clothes on. And he has Aziraphale standing next to him, smiling gently.

“Could use some mistletoe, though,” Aziraphale says, shooting Crowley a glance out of the corner of his eye. Crowley chokes on some consonants as Aziraphale smirks at him. Crowley is desperately trying to spit out a coherent response when Warlock shouts at him from across the room.

“Can we open presents now?” he asks and Crowley latches onto it like a lifeline.

“Yes! Presents!” Crowley agrees and shoots into the sitting room.

Crowley distributes out the gifts then settles down on a foldout chair next to Aziraphale. He’s decided to be preoccupied with the task at hand rather than analyze the mistletoe comment. He isn’t sure how to feel about the first gift he opens. Newt appears to have given him a chunk of wood. Crowley catches Newt’s eye and holds up the wood in a silent question.

“It’s for when you finally pick a name for this place. You can engrave it or paint it or whatever you end up wanting to do,” he explains. Crowley thanks him as he runs a hand across the smooth surface, some unnamed soppy emotion bubbling up.

Anathema gifts him a framed photograph. It’s of the four of them cosied up in a booth at pub night. Crowley is giving Aziraphale bunny ears and Anathema’s arm is slung around Newt’s shoulders. Crowley spends far too long staring at it and fights the urge to retrieve his hammer and nails and hang it up right that instant.

Crowley finally picks up the gifts from Aziraphale. He knows the first one is a book before he even unwraps it. He had been expecting that and he’s curious to see what Aziraphale has chosen for him. He tears the wrapping paper off and when he sees the cover he throws his head back and cackles. It’s a children’s activity book titled Learn to Read and it’s so unexpectedly funny. God, Aziraphale is such a bastard and Crowley is hopelessly fond. The other gift is quite a bit larger than the other, and heavier, too. Crowley unwraps it and finds himself frozen.

It’s a painting and it’s clearly one of Aziraphale’s, Crowley would recognize his style anywhere by now. It’s of the field of yellow grass behind their houses with the sea just barely visible. The sun is setting, or it might be rising, and the colors Aziraphale has chosen give the painting a dreamlike quality. There’s two figures painted out in the yellow stalks, one redhead and one blonde. Crowley is totally and utterly speechless.

He looks over at Aziraphale and sees him smiling down at the jewelry box containing the cufflinks. He’s tracing over a swan with what Crowley could easily mistake for reverence.

Crowley wants to kiss him so badly he can barely breathe. He wants to hold Aziraphale’s hands and say something insane and irrational.

Crowley panics and tears his gaze away to search for Anathema. He meets her eyes from across the room and she’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. Crowley clutches at the painting and swallows down four letter words.

### Footnotes

62. Crowley is a little disappointed. It would’ve been at least kind of funny to scare Aziraphale.return to text

63. The sunglasses don’t even seem to be a deterrent. He always manages to make direct eye contact and it has to be supernatural.return to text

64. It maybe had a little to do with Crowley seeing himself in the Big City Girl who suddenly finds herself in a small town. If only there was a handsome local to sweep him off his feet.return to text

65. Crowley hadn’t spoken to any of his family besides Beez in over a decade at that point and he had no memory of that aunt at all. He wasn’t sure if the sweater was meant as some sort of dig or an olive branch, but he kept both the sweater and his vow of silence.return to text

66. Crowley is delighted to have the task of writing their names on their cups. He writes “Crowley” on his with little devil horns on the C. On Aziraphale’s he writes “Azirafale”.return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> having this chapter line up with christmas time was entirely unintentional but i'm very pleased regardless. also i shamelessly lifted the "frazzled" bit from the office.
> 
> anathema's advice wasn't particularly helpful but i think we can blame that on the wine. we have officially entired Crowley Is A Pine Tree hours!
> 
> i'm super psyched to be participating in the mystery au event and i'll be posting the first chapter later today which i will hopefully remember to link here in case any of you are interested in something a little more angsty
> 
> if you've read, lefts kudos, commented on this fic so far: thank you and i love you
> 
> come chat with me on [tumblr](https://ivory-line.tumblr.com/) and here's the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2jw4jhwtD5ZoiS7ljoPSsZ?si=pfpvUq-dQbOXmaaanxiWEw)

**Author's Note:**

> to all the content creators who are able to create during this time: thank you  
> to all the people who are able to consume, interact with, and love the content shared during this time: thank you  
> Love each other, protect each other, and lift each other up.


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